Mountain Guards
by Malicean
Summary: "In place of a Dark Lord, you would have a queen, not dark but beautiful and terrible as the dawn! Treacherous as the sea! Stronger than the foundations of the earth! All shall love me and despair." Love… not exactly. Despair… like hell! 2010 MEFA Nominee
1. Chapter 1

It might not have been what Sauron had expected from the new Age, but the Burning Eye has become a beacon of hope for fugitives searching for shelter. Shelter from the hunting parties of the Lady of the Golden Wood. It began with the river Anduin, but soon water, earth and air carried _something_ with them and the world …changed. From the Grey Mountains to the Bay of Belfalas, from the Golf of Lhûn to the Lonely Mountain, the trees have taken on a golden sheen. A new power has woken, in the very heart of the world, and while the wizards fought out their petty feuds at the sidelines and all other eyes were fixed to the east, it had risen unnoticed – until it was too late. Only one has known from the beginning – and feared. Armies, summoned to conquer a world, found themselves deployed as lines of defence. So when a tide not of darkness but of cold and pitiless light swept over Middle-earth, mountain-ringed Mordor alone had stemmed it – so far. Survivors of all races soon added their numbers to the legions within. They literally chose the lesser evil. At least the Dark One isn't opposed to not-Elven life in principle. He accepts every race, as long as they bow to him. The common foe – and the common overlord – have forged hereditary enemies not into friends but at least comrades-in-arms. Most of them concentrated close to the Black Gate and Minas Morgul, the obvious entrances to the land, but this war is not fought in battles alone. The enemy might use water, wind and anything that lives as a weapon, so the entire periphery has to be watched. The mountain ranges north, south and west swarm with patrols.

They are the Mountain Guards.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Old Fiery surely makes one damn good landmark. It's like your own built-in compass. The direction that feels worst points straight to Barad-dûr. Not that orientation is a problem anyway, every patrol sticks to the same routes, alternating one over the mountain tops, one in the middle, one along the foothills, and we all know each rock, each patch of lichen along the path. That's the trick. We are to spot everything that has changed since the last trip. And make sure it gets back to normal. Not much to do this time. Seldom is on the middle road. Makes it my favourite, easier going than the scramble over the peaks and there's less invading stuff to weed out than on the low grounds. Unless a giant eagle comes to stir up trouble, the midroute is a week of moderate mountaineering and some decent rests in-between.

Like now. Midday on the second day out. The starting camp is out of sight, the path broadens to a ledge some fifty feet across and there's even a pale sun overhead. Perfect for lunch break. The whole squad has found a corner of not-too-sharp rock to lean against, have a bite and rest their feet.

Gwhâs, on an outcrop as far out as possible, is stargazing again, or treegazing, rather. Eyes fixed on the same spot as always, staring at what's far beyond sight even on a good day – and today isn't – seeing… who knows. The small guy doesn't talk about it. Truth be spoken, he hasn't said more than a handful of words since he arrived. As long as he does his job, nobody cares. He climbs like a squirrel, and that's all a climber should do.

Next in, on a slate of black basalt, Khûral gives his best impression of a lizard a hundred times overgrown basking in the sun. That's something they always do, even if there isn't much sun to speak of. I guess, it's because they can and the Orcs don't, but who can tell what's going through the thick skull of an Uruk-hai. A normal human can not even pronounce their names without choking – if you want a really sore throat, call Khûral 'Coral'. He'll make you say his name till he's satisfied, meaning you are too hoarse to say another word for the next week or so. Makes your grasp of languages improve fantastically. Otherwise, the big black is one of our rootbreakers. And second archer. Best stalker, too. A creature that big shouldn't be able to move completely without a sound. And he's not even trying to be silent. His gear makes as much noise as it likes but you never hear his steps. Like a giant cat. Talking of cats, he certainly behaves like a tom when Grey is around.

Grey. The other archer. Keeps to himself. Tall, not the seven-feet-when-deciding-to-stand-straight stature Khûral has, but a good deal over six feet. Tough as old leather. And, hence the name, grey. Grey hair, grey beard, grey eyes, grey cloak. Even the pony-sized hound always at his heels is grey. In general, the rest of us is dignified with an air of indifference and Khûral with slightly disgusted distrust. Were they both humans, I'd say he and Khûral are hot for each other though we'll all go sledging down Mount Doom ere they'd admit it; but Khûral being hot for anyone doubtlessly would have the person in question bent over the moment he realizes he does, so probably they aren't.

Tovel, the other rootbreaker, is more socially inclined. Not too tall, but squat, almost square. Former woodcutter, he handles an axe even more impressively than Khûral, which is quite a feat. He's droning about the 'Ring' again. About it being the main source of the Lady's might and the best weapon against her, because whenever power is drawn from it, the Dark One gets a share of it. So time is working for us, and if we survive long enough, we'll win no matter what, blah blah blah… Since he talked to one of the few exile Elves, he's spilling enough words on the topic to make up ample conversations for all of us. Not that anyone listens. Least of all Geru, the one he's talking to at the moment.

Geru, the other climber. My little brother, what else is there to say? Used to dream of Elves all his life. Wished with heart and soul to see some real ones. First ones he saw were busily torching our home. If I wouldn't hate them for that, I'd hate them for the empty look in Geru's eyes ever since. He's a burned-out shell. He breathes, eats and moves around but deep inside – he is already dead.

Finally me, the mole. Usually crawling headfirst into suspicious holes, to make sure there's nothing inside that's big enough to do real harm, is an Orc's job and the last one was, but Khûral ate him. Somehow the job went to me. Bets are still running when he'll eat me, though they got a little bit less enthusiastic over the months.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Rest is over and we're marching on. Khûral's in the lead because no one feels comfortable with an Uruk-hai at one's back while there's no need for the big black to fear for a stab from behind. Not while he has the patrol's supply of hellfire strapped on his pack. _Dragon spit, Mount Doom's Finest_, whatever you call the stuff, it's a dark sticky oil bursting into flame after a short time of contact with air. Once ignited, it goes up in a blaze that makes a Balrog burn green with envy. Very effective against obstinate roots or other buried things – among other uses. It might not be the wisest choice to put a few gallons of fiery destructions into the hands of an Uruk-hai, but who else would care to carry instant incineration in a thin skin on his body. After him come Gwhâs, Geru, Tovel, me and Grey brings up the rear.

Afternoon passes by in a steady up and down along the cliffs. For all his agility, Khûral isn't much of a climber, so whenever the trail comes to a sheer precipice, the two climbers take the lead and fix a rope for the rest of us. Grey's nameless dog is heaved along by a stout harness it wears all the time. A few hapless saplings get torn off the ground with a good handful of acrid salt for the roots. They'll provide the campfire tonight, the golden-tinted twigs burn surprisingly well, almost like hardwood. Something between a rat and a marmot shows its head for a moment between the rocks to get casually squashed by a stone from Khûral's hand. Tiny claws scratch futily over his thick leather tunic as he stores the half-pulped creature at his belt for a late afternoon snack. Pity the big'un has so fast reflexes, the small rodents taste rather good. Better than the dried leather strips of unknown origin that go by the name of 'meat' in our rations.

I bet Khûral heard it coming, but of course he wouldn't warn us that a fell beast is about to swoop down on us. They always fly attack-style till you get identified as friendly, and the downdraft of the giant wings almost sweeps me, Gwhâs and Geru off the ridge. Khûral salutes the rider as it circles round. With his bulk and the bright red eye painted on his arms, chest and forehead he's easiest to recognize. The winged monster passes on; it'll carry its rider in a few hours where it takes us five days to get. Probably covers most of the Ashen Mountains today. We will go no further than to the White Lady's Chamber.

We reach the crevice at dusk. It's not much of a shelter where the rocks form a roof; barely enough for the whole group, but safe against night-time attacks, right in the middle of a spider colony. Small critters, none of them much bigger than a grown man's hand, so they won't attack a group, but any intruder provokes a hundred angrily clicking jaws. Better than dogs for a warning. Plus, the place's a good source for spider silk, especially the lady. She's a skeleton at the very back of the fissure and gets a new white wrapping every time you filch the old one. Some of the Haradrim women in the main camp pay handsomely for the silk, and a mole has its own use for the stuff, too. Fresh webs around your forearms keep spiders and other small creatures away when you plunge into their burrows.

Khûral and Grey share the first watch as none would sleep while the other's awake, then it's me and my brother and the last one goes to Gwhâs and Tovel. The noise of all the spiders scuttling around peacefully makes a wonderful lullaby. Habit wakes me at midnight to find two pairs of glowing eyes at opposing ends of the overhang, guarding each other as well as the darkness outside. Grey and his dog form the dark bulk with eyes at middle height, Khûral's the other one. Simple. Geru has risen too, so the other two stretch themselves out where they are. It's a fine night, not too cold, a few stars visible to the north, the spiders patrol as they should. Watch is over in no time. The only problem is to get Tovel awake without rousing the rest as well.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

The darkest hour is the one before dawn. Seldom get to see it, but now everyone is awake. The spiders are silent. The hound growls deep in its throat and Khûral follows suit, but judging by how they scan the dark slopes outside, they haven't spotted the threat yet. With a night vision like theirs that's no good. A breathless eternity later, Grey whispers "Fireball". Khûral grunts, but a moment later the pungent smell of hellfire fills the cave as he dribbles a few drops very carefully onto a ball of oakum on a long string. Then a silhouette, blacker than the night sky, appears as he hurls it high into the air. In mid-flight it catches flame, throwing the rocks beneath into stark relief. They are empty but for the shadows cast by the blinding light. The fireball hits the ground and rolls downhill, trailing a wake of burning shreds and chasing off shadows as it goes. All but one. At the very end of the trail, just before the flames fizzle out, a huge lump of shadow barely moves. A bow stave groans as Grey pulls back the string. Khûral throws another fireball, this one directly at the suspicious shadow. It's gone. In the short moment between the last embers dying and the new light igniting it disappeared absolutely noiselessly over a coverless field of scree. It might have been a trick of light – if not for the silenced spiders. I've never heard of anything managing that. No one goes back to sleep for the remainder of the night.

Sunrise never came so slow, lately, but finally the black of night changes into the black and greys of the Ashen Mountains at day. Gwhâs sets a rope and Khûral and Grey warily climb down to the spot where the strange shadow lay last night. They find no tracks. It puzzles Khûral for the rest of the day. Normally an Uruk-hai deep in thought would be given a wide berth, in case confusion gives rise to rage, but today things aren't normal. Every patch of shadow along the way is given the evil eye. None tries to move but tension grows nevertheless. After lunch Tovel is edgy to the point of trying to calm his nerves by snatching a bit of _baghûd_ when he thinks Grey isn't watching. Doesn't work, obviously. And Grey would hinder him to kill himself with another bite of the poisonous moss. Furthermore, the patrols below and above us usually march more or less parallel and come into view every now and then. The one on the summit route is visible once or twice, but no one catches a glimpse of the low one today. Nobody comments on that, but the whole group stays together as closely as possible. At the same time, everyone is eager as never before to find creepers and shrubs for a good fire at night _and_ to cover as much distance as feasible. The most inaccessible place to stay the night at is a little bit over a normal day's march away from the Lady's Chamber.

The Wailing Turret is a ragged spire of black basalt with mostly perpendicular walls. At about two thirds of its height there's a little platform, the rest is splintered rock that makes the spiky heights of the Dark Tower itself look smooth as glass. It takes Gwhâs and Geru all the rest of light and twilight to get a line of ropes up to the ledge. By the time the rest of us has scrambled up, they have fallen asleep from exhaustion. Everyone else is pretty much knocked out as well, but this night sleep won't come easily. And that's not due to the constant howling and shrieking of the wind between the cliffs. In the meagre shelter of the rocks rising to the peaks of the turret there's hardly enough space to sleep, backed against the wall, all huddled together. Further to the front most of our wood is wedged into a crack, just in case. In this wind the only way to get a fire burning is spilling hellfire, but then we'll have a beacon that can be seen in either of the camps before and behind us. Just in case.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

It feels like I haven't slept at all, when Grey makes me jump by touching my shoulder to wake me for my watch. The relieved guards retreat to the back, but if the yellow lights are any indication they won't be sleeping anytime soon. If only the moon would give off some light, but the thin crescent is only a pale smudge in the clouds that constantly hug the mountain tops all over Mordor. I can distinguish the blackness of the basalt from that of the abyss, but that's all. And in the din of the raging winds I bet not even Khûral can hear anything short of Mount Doom exploding. Far to the north stars twinkle mockingly. Funny thing is, we chose this sleeping place because nothing should be able to follow us up here. Why then is everyone listening anxiously whenever the howling wind changes cadence?

Times drags on. Nothing happens. Maybe we _are_ afraid of a trick of light; the spiders all went underground for their very own reasons and the patrol below is a lazy bunch that saunters along somewhere behind us. I take a look at the distant stars to estimate the hour. Most of them are gone. Great, even the weather tries to obscure things. One blinking later they are back. Must be more tired than I feel. The thought hasn't quite formed when they disappear again.

"Flyer!" The recognition and a fierce hiss are one. The thing has to be huge, judging by the portion of the sky it conceals. Two bows groan under tension. Then an all-too-familiar shriek makes me feel really stupid. With the roar of rushing air the fell beast wheels over the spire and alights on the end of the platform.

"_Something strange is here, something alive_."

Not very comforting to hear one of the Nine address you at the best of times, but to have the Iron-Crowned confirm your worst fears really makes your day.

"Where is it?" For a man standing right beneath the jaws of a fell beast, Grey sounds enviably unfazed.

"_Close_."

Great, not even a wraith can locate the thing precisely. For the rest of the night, uncanny mount and rider stay where they are. I never felt as safe in the company of these creatures before. In the first light of dawn they are gone.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Climbing down is far easier than scaling the rocks, but it takes time. Still, we could make the rest of the way in normal time. The fell beast patrols above. Every now and then it passes overhead to disappear again in the distance. By mid-afternoon without a trace of anything out of the ordinary, things are trying to get back to normal. Then all of a sudden the hound starts growling. To be precise, it growls at the opening of some kind of burrow. Not unusual. It's our best indicator which of the countless holes riddling the stony ground are worth a closer investigation. Nevertheless I never felt as nervous since the first time I crawled underground. It's not a big deal, usually. A pair of stout gauntlets, a bracelet, solid enough to withstand the jaws of a badger gone mad with golden light in its eyes, on one arm, a keen blade in the other hand. One of these sickly green, not-burning phosphorus lights fixed at one shoulder – for practical reasons on a piece of armour and not around your neck or forehead, some critters go straight for the light. Some moles wear helmets, but I prefer to have my ears and eyes free. Otherwise, just take care not to get stuck, and call loud enough if you want to get pulled out. Oh, and make sure someone trustworthy takes care of the security line, but that's all.

The routine of checking the walls for side tunnels, or slime that might stand for something poisonous living in here, or other traces to identify the inmate of this den dispels the anxiety soon enough. There's no predator smell in the air nor the acid odour of a large reptile. Nothing in fact but fresh earth. Whoever dug this lair did so recently. A few sharp turns, but no side tunnels, just spacious enough for me to crawl through. Might be a wolf's den or something of that size. Another sharp turn, and I stare straight into the huge and frightened eyes of a fawn. It looks so helpless and afraid that I start making soothing noises without really noticing. It's trembling hard; whatever drove it into this hole scared it terribly. Even a human seems less scary by comparison since it's slowly edging towards me. The pupils are so large that the eyes don't reflect my light. The eyes.…

I scream. Never screamed as loud in my life and I never got hauled from a hole as fast as this time but the … thing is gaining. It flows forward, the impostor fawn quickly loosing shape. Just before it reaches me, I cover my face with my arms. I never feel its … bite, if that would be the right word, instead I find myself a moment later scratched, bruised and breathless but whole out in the daylight. When I choke on the drink Grey forces into my mouth, I notice I'm still screaming. I stop long enough to swallow some of the stuff, raw spirit mainly distilled from lichens and baghûd and only slightly less combustible than hellfire, but it helps blunting the memory of those horrible non-eyes, those holes into a thing that must not be alive and bugger the Iron-Crowned.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Speaking of whom, the grey swath of cloth, I notice in front of me when I stop coughing, is his cloak. I make sure not to look up. To no avail.

"_Bring it to me!"_

For an instant I actually consider telling the undead bastard to get it himself. I catch myself in time. The thing probably will do no worse than devouring me while a displeased ringwraith… has more in store than a nasty death. Shaking like a leaf, I crawl back to the hole and inside. Only to find it blocked after less than ten feet. I never felt so happy to meet a dead end. The earth looks undisturbed, not like a collapsed tunnel but like untouched ground.

"The tunnel is blocked." I call.

I hear no reply but obviously someone made a decision because I get pulled out. Outside Tovel and Khûral have their pickaxes ready, and with my directions and under the unsettling stare of the Iron-Crowned they start digging. The tunnel has disappeared, within a ten feet radius of the blocked entrance it can't be found again. The two rootbreakers excavate the meagre soil down to the bedrock without hitting as much as a mousehole.

For no apparent reason the wraith suddenly hisses, "_It is gone,_" and strides off to his mount to set off into the setting sun.

We don't go much further this day. I feel like sleepwalking and probably look like Geru's twin. No one speaks to me. I'm glad about it.

Late in the evening Khûral asks, "What did you see?" but, unlike his usual self, he doesn't seem to be bent on tormenting a weak target, but merely interested in what to look for in the dark.

"A shape-shifter," I say, "darkness cast into a mould."

Without any comment Tovel hands me his flask of spirit. I drink myself senseless that night.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

With the grandmother of all hangovers I trudge through the next day without perceiving much, let alone thinking anything. Same goes for the one after it. I don't miss much. Maybe the thing got scared by the Iron-Crowned. Suits me well. The day after that, the sixth day on patrol finds me a bit frazzled but functional again.

Nobody senses the thing until it strikes. I'll never know why it hasn't waited for all of us to walk into its trap. Maybe it couldn't stretch any wider and feared the first would escape its clutches before the last ones strayed in. On the march, there's always a few steps distance between each member of the squad. Anyway, Khûral turns round for some reason and out of the blue the shadows besides the path fold up silently. In the blink of an eye everyone in front of me is swallowed by a solid piece of darkness. Only Khûral, being much taller than the rest and further on at the edge, is engulfed only to the shoulders. For a moment he looks surprised, then his head whips back and a black fountain rises high above his head to rain down on the thing; its eagerness to squash the prey sealing its doom.

The last time I see the Uruk-hai, he's grinning wildly, liquid fire running from his fangs where he slashed through the skin holding the hellfire. A bowstring sings next to my ear as Grey puts an arrow through our comrade's skull, a heartbeat before the inferno ignites. The fireball hurls me back against Grey and both of us some twenty feet along the path. Luckily it's broad and uphill here. The patch of darkness has become a lump of living fire; flickering heads and half-formed bodies of all kind of creatures you can imagine, appear on its surface and melt away again, and it screams. It shrieks, it screeches, it squeals, it howls… as if all the beasts it tries to change into really suffer the pain of immolation. I'm glad there are no human voices in this agonized chorus. It's terrible enough as it is. And no well-aimed arrow can put it out of its misery.

Fuelled by about three gallons of hellfire the flames are still roaring high when the fell beast arrives. It perches on a boulder nearby to give its rider a good view of the twisting pyre.

When the fire finally has burned itself out, the Iron-Crowned orders us to search the ashes. We find no human bones, no metal, no slag, but charred remains of deer's antlers and horns and hooves and fragile, feathery bones that might have been small birds and fishes or the like. Like all the victims of a devastating forest fire congregated in one spot. It seems the Lady has forged a part of all her animal subjects into one twisted creature and sent it here to haunt the land.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

The lowland patrol disappeared the day before we first met the thing at the White Lady's Chamber. Probably they fell for the shadow much like the rest of our squad. And when the Iron-Crowned drove it from that hole on our path, the thing went uphill. The summit patrol hasn't been seen since day five. We were lucky. Lucky as hell. But it doesn't feel like that.

* * *

A/N: Second chapter anyone? It would work as a stand-alone, but if anyone's interested…


	2. Chapter 2

Without Grey who sent his dog to lead the way, probably I'd have walked right past our destination. The ancient stonework won't attract attention, snuggled between two mountains' shoulders, and hewn from the local rock. But I've walked through the heavy gates three times a month for about a year now. I should be able find the way into the base blind and in a blizzard – and I have. I just don't care anymore.

It's a solemn welcome we get. A silent one. The guards at the watchtower that marks the end of our patrol ask no questions about the rest of the squad. Normally they would. The smart ones would ask about what got them; the hard ones would make jokes about what did. This time the captain simply informs us that we are to descend to the main camp to regroup before we take over the summit route as usually. Big, scar-riddled Ultan eyes us with something akin to fear. It's strange enough to gnaw straight through shock, exhaustion and all the other stuff clogging my mind. I mean, the man habitually arm-wrestles with Uruk-hai, there isn't much that can scare him in this world. What's left of our squad was marked off as really bad company, it seems. How do they say, ill news travel fast? Around here, a fell beast on the wing is hard to beat for speed. In his efficient, if nastily wraithy, ways the Iron-Crowned has already organised replacements for the disappeared patrols. All three of them. To fetch the new crews from the camp on the inner foothills will mean stiff marching and no rest before the next patrol, but that's our problem, not anyone else's. And the sooner we leave, the sooner we get there.

Dusk is falling before we get to the Khubo, halfway down the hill. Lug-naakhu-bo, Hands-off-Tower, would be the proper Orcish name, if proper Orcish wouldn't be a contradiction in itself. Nevertheless it's aptly named. Inside the Khubo the patrols store their belongings while they are out on the beat, and short of the top of Barad-dûr, there isn't a safer place in all Mordor. Double guards mixed of all races all around and a lesser wraith behind your shoulder once you step inside. Not as bad as the Nine but enough to deter even the most temerarious of thieves. Keeps the mountain guards from worrying about their stuff while they should be sharp on the watch. Even makes a good enough incentive for half the new recruits to be volunteers. If you think that's odd, you've never been to the camps in lowland Mordor.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

I'm beyond exhaustion tonight and still rummaging in my chest when Grey enters.

"Tovel had a sister," he says. "We need to go through the rest of the chests."

He holds out a pair of keys. I haven't thought of that, yet. Unless you name a specific heir for your worldly goods, the contents of your chest go to the rest of your patrol when you die or get permanently missed. Usually that meant Khûral would take whatever struck his fancy and the rest went to anyone who needed something. Surplus – as if there ever was one – goes to the general supplies of the Mountain Guards. I look over the unmarked chests in front of me. The odd one open and empty at the back wall, as a squad may have up to seven members. Next a row of three, mine, Geru's and Gwhâs's, then, with a bit more space around them, Khûral's, Tovel's and Grey's. With Tovel's and Geru's possessions – which are mine now – taken care of, that leaves two. By unspoken agreement we start with Gwhâs's chest.

Nothing remarkable there. A set of spare clothes, a cloak, boots for the winter. I take the latter, but nothing else, and it's not like Grey could use anything in Gwhâs's size, anyway. The rest will be left in the open chest. In a leather pouch at the bottom, there's a strangely formed pebble with a stained twist of colourful silk tied to it.

"What's that?" I ask.

"A charm" Grey answers.

"Now we know, why we had no luck this time," I say, raw emotion thinly disguised as scorn on my voice. "Gwhâs forgot to take his lucky charm with him."

"An infant's charm," Grey continues quietly, "it would have been tied to the crib of a newborn child to protect it from all evil."

_Would have been._ Taciturn Grey isn't the man to waste three words when he could have said 'is' or 'was' just as well. So that's what you were looking for, all the time, Gwhâs. The child you've never seen.

The first surprise in Khûral's chest is the stench. The lack thereof. Almost a year of close contact should have taught me that a sweating Uruk isn't smellier than a sweating human, especially in the Ashen Mountains where the next drop of water within a week's march is swilling around in your canteen. And it's harder to make an Uruk break a sweat than a human. But old prejudices die hard. So I'm kind of flabbergasted when only the smell of wood, leather and fur wafts up from the opening chest. There's a whetstone, a bundle of carefully wrapped-up bow-strings and other knick-knacks that could have been in any warrior's chest on an oddly shaped piece of leather.

"A coif," Grey answers my unspoken question. "a hood to be worn under a helmet."

Never saw the big black with a helmet, but now I know what it is, I recognize the leather thing. I've seen a lot of men wear it. Usually more padded than this one, though, but with his thick mane Khûral had no need for extra padding, it seems. Underneath lies a thick leather bundle. Looks like a rolled-up mantle. It is. Or rather, it's one of these big sheets of leather that might go for a raincoat, a groundsheet, a watertight wrapping for sensitive goods or even a make-shift tent – whatever you need. The pair of slim Elven blades rolled inside, crudely stripped of all their fine decorum and hilts wrapped with greasy leather to accommodate the grip of a much larger hand, are the first indication that this is not Grey's chest, for example. Grey picks them up, weighs them in his hand for a moment and passes one to me.

"Very fine steel," he remarks, "though the blade was brought off-balance."

Way off-balance in my hands, but I have the suspicion that it wasn't so in Khûral's great paws. A much smaller packet of very dark leather still in the chest draws my eye. Unfolding it, my breath catches. It's the most beautiful silver fox pelt I've ever seen. Perfectly tanned, too. Since my family back home comes from the fur trade, I know. But for the same reason I know that no human tanner touched this masterpiece – at least none I've ever heard of. The cut is all wrong. And no preparation I know of would yield almost black leather without ruining the priceless, silky hair. Maybe the Uruk-hai have talents not solely confined to destruction. I look up to find Grey staring at the pelt with unfathomable eyes and hold it out to him. He declines with a hand wave. But by right of strength – which I'm smart enough to recognise, thank you very much – it's his.

"Take it," I say. "Far too regally for me, anyway."

Something flashes in his eyes, just for a moment. Then it's gone and his tone is emotionless but final when he says, "Keep it."

As the chests are through now, he departs with a nod, leaving me with a king's ransom in my hand. One day the foxskin might buy me, well, anything. From my life in a tight corner to a small estate, enough to make a living. And Grey turned it down. I start to wonder how much I missed about him. He's nobility written all over him, of course. He speaks high-class, he moves high-class, he knows how to wield a sword. And that's not saying he knows which end to poke into the enemy. Grey could give his opponent a new haircut and a shave without ever breaking the skin. Which brings me to another point. He's about the only adult male I know that sports a neatly trimmed beard six days out on the beat in the waterless Ashen Mountains. He speaks half a dozen languages, at least. He knows falconry to the point of starting a discussion with a Haradrim. Even his dog reeks high-class. A sleek, yet muscular breed to hunt deer, wild boars and wolves alike.

I would like to leave, too, but another chest looms just in front of me. There's no surprise in the contents of Geru's chest. I packed it. I always pack it because my dear little brother has the same sense of property as the common rock. So I always get his key along with mine and haven't realised so far that Cole, the keykeeper, usually makes a lot more fuss about that. It's not much. A handful of furs that will help to get me over the winter, when summit patrol is taken over by the blizzards, the midroute is taken down by them, frequently, and the lowland patrol is taken on by starving wolves that may or may not have ties to the Lady. Nothing really personal, it's not like we had time to pack when we left home, and most of his things he carried on his body, anyway. Meaning they are… don't go there, it's not leading anywhere. As if I would listen to myself.

When the unpacking of Geru's chest is done, I break. Not obviously, no, I haven't cried in years. Not here, where tears spell weakness and the weak get eaten by the Orcs. And that's not just a tale to frighten children. En contraire, the kids here would probably answer, "Yeah, and the strong get eaten by the Elves." Their minions, at least. The eagles, the wolves, the... the things She sends against us. I barely register how I get out of the Khubo and onto a ledge nearby where nothing but night air and the distant blurred lights of the main camps keep me company.

Wake up, I chide myself. Did you expect condolences from Old Fiery himself? A wreath of lilies delivered by the Iron-Crowned, perhaps? Just because your squad was devoured by something previously unheard-of? The Mountain Guards loose men all the time. Using the term 'men' as loosely as possible.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

A cool snout nuzzles my cheek to start me out of my reverie. Grey's dog stares at me with shining yellow eyes. Maybe a note of commiseration signed with a burning eye wasn't so much off the wall, if this hound, which never acknowledges anyone's presence but his master's, unless to rip out some throats, comes to console me. Maybe I'm loosing it altogether.

"In the old days," a quiet voice says, "it would have seemed proper to drink to the dead and recall their deeds and virtues."

I keep on staring into space while Grey settles beside me.

"Your brother, recall him," he says.

I glare at him.

So he starts himself. "I remember the day when the two of you joined the squad. Khûral had eaten the Orc we previously had for a mole – and half of him alive, I must say – " The cool disdain in his voice makes me see a grin of inch-long fangs, and I almost grin myself, because it's so much Grey and Khûral, bickering. "And the other one had run, so we needed two replacements. As you arrived, Khûral confronted you and started to boast of his atrocities. Your brother just stared at him until he gave up. Thus Geru gained quite a reputation for audacity among the Uruk-hai."

"He wasn't…" I start, then reconsider. Geru _was_ fearless. Devoid of any emotion, up to and including fear. It's a strange thought to see anything admirable in it. In a strange way – it makes me proud.

"The big blacks thought him brave?" I ask.

"They did. They still do." Grey confirms.

And though I can see through his ploy to cheer me up, I have to admit it works. Sort of. I accept the flask he hands to me and almost choke on the first sip. Not because it's so harsh, no, quite the opposite. Because it's wine. The Dark One alone knows where you get wine in the Ashen Mountains.

He says a few words about Gwhâs and I find myself adding the anecdote about the one occasion when I saw the little man crack a smile. It was when, in a fissure somewhere off-track, he found a gnarled and twisted shrub that had lost all ambitions of becoming a tree ages ago, but clung recklessly to life, nevertheless. And it wasn't golden. Not a single leaf of it. I really thought he would tear Khûral to shreds with his bare hands, when the Uruk – thrice his weight and ten times his strength – made to tear it out. It took the whole squad to get the two apart. But the miserable twig still thrives where it was. Gwhâs paid it a visit every times we passed there.

Tovel, with his never-ending optimism and quickly ignited enthusiasm about anything and nothing. He fell on my nerves at times, but with a sentence or two, Grey makes me see how the man with his cheer kept the rest of us from drowning in the bleak and icy cynicism of hopelessness.

We sit in silence for a moment and Khûral's piebald face pops up in my mind.

"He taught me that Uruk-hai have a face." I say, thinking aloud.

"Interesting choice of words," Grey replies. "Yet fitting."

Whatever. It's the best description I have. When I came to Mordor, they were just one solid block of motley-skinned muscle. But you simply can't spend weeks 'n weeks on end of close and vigilant company with someone and not recognize his face in a crowd afterwards. And once there's one individual in the mass, there're others, too. Teaches you a lot about people, to make out faces. For instance, the Uruk-hai as a group are constantly fighting. Yet, if you keep track, let's say of the guy with the smashed nose and the one with those curiously slanted eyes, you'll find them fighting all out, claws, fangs and muscles to tear a horse apart; yet half an hour later the same pair is being best friends and licking each others wounds. Literally. Most of them, at least. Some are just the ferocious, ever hostile brutes they look. Still, I'm not saying any one of them has any human feelings, let alone towards someone outside their own pack. Or maybe they do, at times. I remember a day when a horde of water voles swarmed from the swamps and hit us on the lowland route. Very messy fight. Jhak, the rootbreaker we had before Tovel, stepped into one of the burrows they had dug under the path and couldn't get up again while the golden-eyed beasts gnawed him down, alive. Everyone else was too busy keeping rodents of himself to help him. And then I remember Khûral, taking a step that might have tumbled him into the same pit as Jhak, and sparing a precious sweep of his own defence to end Jhak's sufferings.

"His soul wasn't as black as his face," Grey says, echoing my thoughts, and drinks to it.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Well before daybreak on the next morning, we march down the rest of the hill. In the bleak light of Mordor dawn about a score of figures huddle around a tiny fire. Of course it would be nice to choose the best of the heap for our own squad, but someone somewhere already did the math. Counted to two a lot of times, actually. Two rootbreakers, two archers, two climbers, one mole. That's a patrol. If two jobs fit one person, lucky you. Cuts the numbers. No less than two Orcs or two humans on a crew, if any. Uruk-hai, it seems, can fend for themselves. Three giant shadows loom together, a little bit off the rest; a bunch of scrawny Orcs in full quarrel form a snarling lump as far away as possible on the other side. A handful of humans crouch in-between. A tall figure, clad in distinctive cream-coloured fur, easily dominates the rest. Oh bugger. A Phuma-Ar. I bet even Grey gulped – unnoticeable – at the sight. Skin like dark honey. A body to give a boy wet dreams, though I guess they, secretly, feature quite highly in the nightmares of men. They came up from the far south. The Dark One summoned some of the neighbouring tribes to his armies and they decided to follow. The prospect of fighting the rest of the world appealed to them, apparently. Probably the only people around who are here really by their own choice. Once saw how a gang of Orcs who had stolen a little kid run into a troop of them. Got flayed alive on the spot by the Phuma-Ars – half of the latter, that is. The rest was busy mooing and cooing about the baby, finding extreme pleasure in each of its little fingers and toes and tiny nose. Both groups were taking turns.

"Squad One will stand up, now."

Here we go. Grey is using his best Voice of Command and a handful of humans jump to their feet before they realise why. Even one of the Uruk-hai unfolds to his full length. Only the Orcs carry on brawling without any acknowledgement.

"Squad One," Grey repeats quietly. No reaction. And then, just as the Uruk-hai are about to start sniggering, there's a low growl. A deep rumble, barely audible. Everyone freezes, most notably the Orcs. That kind of sound starts deep down in one throat and holds the prospect of ending buried in somebody else's.

In the absolute silence following the growl, Grey says "One."

Two of the Orcs are on their feet so fast they almost keel over backwards.

"Archers," Grey says. A gaunt man in ragged homespun, the kind the gamekeeper would always keep an extra eye on, and a cowering Orc raise their hands. Never underestimate Orcish archery.

"Climbers." Two guys with near identical heavy features, brothers maybe, Dunlendings for sure – and those know their rocks.

"Mole." The other Orc.

"Rootbreakers." A barrel-chested man and the Uruk.

Grey looks them all up and down in silence, then dismisses them with a nod.

"Squad Three, stand up." No delay this time.

"Squad Two." Two Orcs, two humans, the last of the Uruk-hai – our new crew. Guess who got lucky and caught the Phuma-Ar. The lady's our new second archer. One of the Orcs answers for climbers but nobody else, so Grey shots me a glance that means I'm promoted second one. Suits me well. I could die happy without seeing tunnels steeped in darkness ever again. Probably would see liquefying fawns everywhere. Plus, I wouldn't like to trust my life on purely Orcish rope-work. If they don't mess it up out of spite – not advisable if this means to drop an Uruk hard enough to make him angry – they'd likely botch the job because of inexperience. Orcs don't climb with ropes. Yellow eyes agleam in the grey wolf light my new 'colleague' gives me an appraising look. I do the same. My height, not quite my weight and about twice my strength. We both know it and I stare him down with a sneer, anyway, because that's how it works. Put on a strong front and they respect it, as long as they think there is something to back it up. And there is, usually, with humans, they learned that the hard way. Humans bunch up easily – especially against Orcs. Doesn't mean they won't test their limits someday soon. The other Orc is the mole, no surprise there, and the Uruk and the last human are rootbreakers. The young man has 'conscript farmer boy' written all over him, which isn't a bad thing if your tools of trade include axe and pickaxe. At least he won't hit his own legs.

Grey nods them all down with an unmoving face, then, without looking, he says "Squad Four."

Nothing wrong with that, in principle. Every sector has four squads, rotating through the three patrol routes and one week off. The squads are numbered and out of coincidence One to Three were out on the beat last week and Four wasn't. Or maybe it's more than coincidence. Among hundreds of squads numbered Four in the Mountain Guards, there's _the_ Squad Four. They have a certain reputation. Appearing out of the thick morning mists, they march up smartly, wheel and form a perfectly straight line, next to Grey. Who shows no sign of being impressed, nor do I because I know the lot, but the newbies stare.

"Fresh meat on the menu, boys," a deeper-than-the-heart-of-the-mountains voice rumbles.

Squad Four laughs. And they look as if they mean it. Quite a sight to behold, sorted by size, from the truly impressive height of Sunshine standing straight to the gnarled stumpyness of Pughduf. Sunshine. Bulkiest creature I've ever seen short of a troll – which explains the name. Everyone's waiting to see him turn into stone at the touch of sunlight. Aloud he's called One-Eye. Firstly, it fits; secondly, even the choking sound Khûral starts with flows smoothly over your tongue, compared with his real name; and thirdly, you wouldn't call a 500 pound Uruk 'Sunshine' to his face, now would you? At the other end of the line slouches the shortest and most short-tempered Orc there is, in the Mountain Guards. Some say it's a bitch – well, I don't care. I keep a healthy distance. Next to Sunshine, long and thin with aquiline features, stands Sikhim. Recognizable, if not by his skeletal build, by the strange spicy smell surrounding him, caused by years and years of chewing baghûd. The dose that man ingests every day could kill Sunshine within a few minutes. Third in line is Shaen. Maybe half an inch shorter than Sikhim, he's about twice the weight of the emaciated Haradhrim. All of it muscle. If not for the olive tone of his skin, he might be one of the more sleekly built Uruk-hai. Sometimes I could even swear his eyes gleam silvery at night. Beyond fast with a blade, any blade. Uruks like him. They share the same type of humour. Number four never shows up without a heavy cowl and hooded cloak, earning him the nickname Ten – the only other folk wearing this kind of attire are the Nine. To be true, the cloth is far too fine for a ringwraith, and the colour isn't right, either, though it would be hard to tell what colour it is, exactly. Rumour has it that Ten is one of the rare exile Elves. Last – known – human in the line is Aren, looking deceivingly young and boyish, but even the rest of Squad Four keep their distance when he falls into a sudden fit of rage. Between him and Pughduf, the other Orc, called for some reason or the other 'Jewel' by everyone. Nothing special about that one, but a survival time of more than a year in Squad Four. Which _is_ something special.

Having finished brandishing his fangs at the new crews, Sunshine takes a swig from his canteen and offers it to Grey. Who takes it, sips without flinching and hands it back.

"One of these days," Grey says dryly, "command will start an inquiry, why your squad consumes so much more hellfire than the other troops do, and find out that you inebriate yourself on it."

Sunshine only grins. It's kind of a ritual between them. Strength can't impress Grey, so Sunshine, with surprising insight into the human nature, tries to do the trick with the discipline and efficiency of his crew – lowest death rate of all Mountain Guard patrols and a trophy list as long as the Ashen Mountains. In return, Grey not only accepts a drink from an Uruk's flask, but swallows whatever vile concoction Sunshine got his hands onto without choking on it – and they are truly dreadful, Sikhim never drinks, but I've seen Shaen coughing for half an hour after being offered a mouthful.

Without further ado they start talking business. "Three by three?" Sunshine asks.

"Three by three by three," Grey confirms, meaning that each of the three squads will have three experienced members for the next three trips, one on each route. Afterwards it's learning by doing for the newly formed teams. Veteran crews stay together, so in the sporadic cases that a whole squad gets snuffed, the rookies have to fend for themselves. Overall survival is higher this way.

At this point I realize that Squad Four is looking at me. Not in the assertive what-am-I-going-to-eat-next way they eye the newbies, but as if I'm an actual person. Like Grey. Never happened up to now, they just ignored the rest of the squad before. It's unnerving – flattering, yes – but mainly unnerving. The top predators of the region noticed I'm here. I wonder if it's close acquaintance with the Iron-Crowned or with the Thing that brought me there. Anyway, it can't be helped, so I look back as if they were actually persons and not Death's most favourite disciples. Seems to be the right thing to do, since Shaen grins, white teeth flashing in his dark face, and throws his flask at me.

"Cold morning," he says.

I take a sip, manage not to cough wildly and toss it right back.

"Not anymore," I reply. More grins. And it's true, too. I feel almost good. Not because of the drink though it is better stuff than usually. Life just took a turn towards the lighter side. There'll be no problems with the Orcs, probably not even with the Uruk in the near future – nobody messes with someone who's on speaking terms with Squad Four.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

The rest is fairly routine. The squads march up the mountain, dump their belongings at the Khubo, and climb on to the base, to pick up their gear. Ropes and funny-looking hooks for the climbers, axe and pick-axe for the rootbreakers, and so on. Plus provisions and water for a week. Grey makes sure, personally, that every one of the rookies is fully equipped.

Then Sunshine purrs, "One," and takes off, with seven more or less obviously frightened figures in his wake and Ten and Pughduf – cursing audibly – at their backs. They'll take the middle route.

The new Threes look relieved, just for a moment, before they see Shaen smile.

"Jewel," he says amiably, making the Orc step back. "Would you please show our new friends downstairs?"

The Orc shoots him a primrose-yellow glare, slips a strip of slitted leather over his face to protect his eyes from the glaring sunrays tinting the slopes downhill a watery grey – and runs. "Mooove it!" Shaen barks at the startled squad. And they bolt like hares.

Grey and Sikhim watch them go, share a look and shake their heads. "Boys," Grey says scornfully. Sikhim nods gravely. And with the dignity befitting men they lead the team uphill. For the next round of patrols by the Mountain Guards.


	3. Chapter 3

Long time, no see. Well, my beta ran off with the next two chapters and with Real-life throwing a tantrum and other stories demanding my attention, I wasn't exactly in hot pursuit. The world moved on, continental drift buried the files…

Then recently I was reminded that there are still people out there reading this story. Thanks, I needed that. So I did some excavation work, blew off the dust and if you're still interested, here we go again. Unbetaed, though, so you have been warned.

* * *

Grey and Sikhim submerge themselves in a conversation in a language nobody else understands. They will shepherd the squad at the rear end, so it's up to me to lead the way. The Uruk follows close at my heels, a steady swish of leather on leather with no footsteps to carry it. Just half a step short of breathing down my neck. Itching to take over the lead – if only he knew the way. It's not easy to decide which of the handful of marginally passable spurs is the right one. Which of the numerous boulders makes a landmark. Sometimes the best method is to count your steps. Eleven since the last fork, taking the path next to the cliff. Careful now. Promptly the big black _is_ breathing down my neck. I am not too happy with that. I'm not too keen on leading, either; the front man usually gets the brunt of everything that comes our way. Hopefully, with a target so much bigger right behind me, they will go for that, mainly. Twenty-six, twenty-seven. Almost there.

A hiss like a live coal hitting water. A very angry coal – and it brought friends. The Uruk is lucky to loose merely the tip of an ear and a handful of stringy hairs when a score of greedy jaws shoot from the rock face on skinny necks. Pu-sha-skoirs. Winged-Maws. Fellbeasties. Perfect stock for breeding a grisly airborne steed – if you're a Ringwraith with a couple of millennia on your hands and nothing better to do.

If you know where the colony is, you simply stay out of reach, and they'll do nothing but hiss and spit. They prefer dead meat to those who might fight back – but if opportunity marches straight into their jaws… Unlike their giant cousins, fellbeasties can't bite you in halves, but they can take off a hand, a foot or half of your face, whatever they get hold of. And perched at the entrances of their rocky nests, necks writhing snakelike and wings spread for full display, they look more than ready to attack. Safe at the spot where he jumped to, the big black eyes them suspiciously. Then he seems to see through the bluff and starts laughing. Trust the Uruk-hai to see the funny point in almost getting your face torn off. As long as someone else might share the same fate, that is. I've marched on without missing a step and am already past the furious flock, but the rest of the newbies stopped before it. Well before it. Not stupid. Lesson One learned: Don't approach an unknown danger unless there's no other way.

"Keep an arm's length distance to the cliff and you are out of harm's way," Grey advises quietly.

Sunshine might actually have arms that long, but our new squad members go for the generous side. They keep as much distance as the gravel slope would allow. From now on, the Uruk takes great care to step exactly where I stepped – and to let me have some breathing space. Lesson Two learned: Harassing the leader is bad for your health.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

By midday we have reached travel height, and for once the Ashen Mountains seem benevolently inclined. The clouds restrict themselves to veiling the highest peaks, so you actually see the landscape ahead and below. The swamps at the foot of the mountains glisten in the sun, the faraway glare being bright enough for the Orcs to cringe away from it. The rest of the squad enjoys the sight during lunch break. If we are really lucky – and considering last week we are due for some good fortune – the fine weather might keep for a few days before turning into hail and icy wind at a moment's notice.

The summit route mainly consists of tiptoeing over narrow ridges and scrambling over the scree skirting higher peaks. It's exhausting and dangerous footing, but interestingly it isn't much more work for the climbers than the midroute, since many of the numerous gorges and gullies cutting through the path start somewhere downhill. Or, if they don't, they aren't as wide up here. Not all of them, though. Shortly after lunch we reach a ravine, half filled with old ice. Some sixty feet deep and maybe twenty-five wide.

I set up a rope, fastening it with a knot that is easy to untie, yet not likely to get loose under strain. "Take the rope with you, when you get down," I tell my 'colleague', before climbing down. Old Mountain Guard rule, whoever fixed the rope climbs first.

Down in the ravine the air is icy. The ground is treacherous. Solid ice as a base covered by a crust of snow that has melted and refrozen into bizarre shapes. The Uruk hits the ground behind me and promptly breaks through the crust. As long as he doesn't slip, that might be better footing than the precarious dance I do on top of the jagged deposits. I safely reach the other wall and scan it for the best way up. A heavy crunch and a deep-throated curse in Black Speech tell me that the big black _did_ slip on the ice. The frozen bristles are sharp enough to draw black blood from his hands. At least the very fact that he's too heavy for the snow crust ensures that he won't slide downhill. Where we cross the ground is almost even, but a few steps further on, the steep slope gives you a free ride down, with no way to stop until you hit the rocks some five hundred yards below.

I haven't yet the toughened fingertips all long-time climbers have, so my hands are raw and bleeding by the time I've scaled the rugged cliff. But once I've secured the rope for the rest of the squad to follow, I feel elated. My first real task as a climber – and it worked smoothly. The feeling holds until I see the other climber on the opposite brink, unsheathing his blade to cut the rope loose.

"Don't touch the rope, idiot!" I roar. He'll cut it in halves and good ropes are hard to come by. We'll need the full length further on.

The Orc jumps back, startled, then reaches again for the rope with a malicious grin on his ugly face. So much for having no trouble with the Orcs. Let's try another track.

"You touch that rope, maggot," I shout, trying to match the chilling disdain Grey is so good at, "and you won't get any further than this gully. The bottom end of it, to be precise."

As I hoped, the Orc is distracted enough to look in the direction I indicate, and therefore can't dodge the stone coming his way. He very nearly chokes as it smashes into his throat. At that distance I'm pretty good. And then the rope at his feet starts to move on its own accord, because Grey, who knows this kind of knot, gave the dangling ends the right tug. And suddenly the Orc feels uncomfortably alone on his side of the canyon. The Uruk is squatting somewhere beside me, grinning in anticipation of some kind of violence. The Phuma-Ar has just scaled the rope and looks back with a similar expression. The young man is on the way up, and definitely not siding with the Orc, while down in the gorge, Sikhim and Grey are waiting for him. Even if Orcs were sociable creatures, the second one wouldn't stand up for him against such odds.

"Take the rope with you, once you get down," I advise with a smile.

Grey heaving up his hound takes care of the rope on this side. The other climber takes his time at the bottom, but as the rest of us obviously won't leave without him, he finally scales the wall. The top part of the cliff is the worst climb, so I know the Orc is rather glad to have those claws to dig into some cranny – and still is hard put to keep a hold when I step onto the edge, blocking the way to the safety of the even ground.

"A hundred feet are a long way down," I tell him, in the tone for admonishing a little child – a sure bet to get under the skin of a creature probably a few hundred years old. "A hundred feet, that's about the length of our ropes. And if they get shorter, somehow, there'll be a problem. Because it's our job to get the squad down. And I'm not sure how you feel about helping him down a hundred feet without a rope," I say, waving towards three hundred pounds of fanged muscle, "but I know how he feels about lending a hand to you."

Since we all know that said hand would send the Orc down pretty fast, he swears up and down to take care of the ropes from this time forth. We'll see how long that lasts.

At the next precipice I let the Orc go down first, and the Uruk kindly suggests that he'd better stick to the rope and that the other Orc is coming second. Even from the top of the cliff, the argument they have when they reach the bottom, is clearly audible. There's no way how the big black would not bully the Orcs whenever he gets the chance, but evidently the mole thinks that the other Orc is fishing for trouble. Trouble hitting both of them. By the time the rest of the squad has reached the lower ground, they are in a full snarling contest.

"A pair of humans is called a couple," I start. "A pair of oxen is a team," one of the newbies chimes in. "A pair of Orcs is a quarrel" a chorus ends. On cue the snarling redirects its focus from themselves to us, only to rouse general laughter.

The rest of the day is quite uneventful.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

The next morning finds us in a fog so thick that you can't see ten steps in front of you. The summit clouds have descended to our level. Grey and his dog take over the lead, to have at least some minimum warning if there's anything amiss on the way. I let the Uruk have the second place and trail him for a change. The young rootbreaker walks behind me, his name is Rádni, I found out last evening. The Phuma-Ar is Aza, with a sibilant hiss between the vowels; the Uruk's name sounds like Thakmor – snakish hiss, harsh kh at the very back of the throat – either Khûral was a good teacher or this is a surprisingly easy-to-pronounce Black Speech name; and the Orcs are Maukh'l and Nûrzm, or something like that.

On one of the rare occasions where the path is broad enough to walk side by side, Rádni hastens to join me.

"The Haradrim," he starts, to break off shyly.

"Sikhim," I supply.

He nods relieved. "He has, he's… is that a Giant Eagle claw, his dagger sheath, I mean?"

The boy has eyes and knows how to use them, I have to grant him that. "Yes, it is."

He digests that in silence. "He killed a Giant Eagle," half question, half statement.

"Squad Four did," I explain. "They all wear a claw each."

Rádni nods again. "How?" he asks curiously.

"Luck, Squad Four ferocity, more bows and arrows than the regulations would expect them to carry, good teamwork – take your pick. From what I know, the trick is to find a refuge the Eagle can't pluck you off, shoot fast enough to actually hit it, hit the right spot, and – once you got it down – go in fiercely enough to keep it down." To say the least, the killing of the Giant Eagle was a major point for Squad Four in gaining their sky-high reputation.

"Doesn't sound too complicated," the young man jokes.

"No, it doesn't. Has been done before, too." But never by a team of seven.

He knows it. Probably hunted birds of prey back home, to keep them off the poultry, so he can appreciate the difficulties. His eyes glow with admiration.

"Who got the eighth claw?" he asks as an afterthought.

Smart, really smart, that boy.

"Grey," I say. "The Fours found two of his arrows in the Eagle's guts, so they decided the last claw was his." As they decided to keep the rest of them, or so the rumour says. Old Fiery got the Eagle skin, including the head and beak – which now adorns the Black Gate – but by then, the Eagle's feet were gone. Personally, I call that rubbish, not even Squad Four messes with the Dark One and gets away with it, but it certainly enriches the legend.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Shortly after noon the mole gets its first real job, a freshly dug hole, just big enough to squeeze in. To end up soaking wet and miserably cold. At this height, not so far away from the eternal snow of the peaks, there's often ice in the ground, hidden by a thin layer of crumbled minerals. The creature – some kind of badger – hit such an ice sheet, but as the golden light makes them stop at nothing, it gnawed, fought and burrowed its way through. Only to find a pocket of meltwater at the base. The wretched thing drowned in the icy pool and the Orc almost does the same. Thakmor offers a sip of hellfire to warm him up and gets a _Look_ from Grey that shuts him up for the rest of the day.

With dusk falling, we reach a gap in the clouds and get some last sun-rays. The Orcs quickly cover their eyes and the mole, arm thrown protectively over his face, grumbles, "Now it really can't get any worse."

Which we will remember as the exact moment when he jinxed us.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Soon after midnight the Ashen Mountains decide to enlighten us how to maintain extensive swamps at the base of seemingly arid mountains. Start high with sleet and a harsh wind, hit the ground hard and fast, and head for the nearest chasm, never to see daylight again until the foothills are well behind you. All the midroute will get is a distant rumble and black clouds overhead, and probably a grateful 'better them than us' comment from the experienced squad members.

Rádni trudges through the freezing, almost horizontal rain hunched up and in silence. The Orcs grumble, Aza and the Uruk almost start a fight and Grey and Sikhim almost let them have one. I take a fall into the rope that smashes me against the rock face with enough force to make me revaluate dark holes. Anything has to be better than scrambling over wet rocks, slick with an icing of real ice. Anything.

Jinx.

Again.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

The first warning is the crunch of stepping on a dead spider.

The second is the fact that the mountainside ahead is glowing in the gloom. The Ashen Mountains are volcanic by nature, but the nearest active firespitter is Old Fiery's favourite forge, a good hundred miles due west.

The last one is a whiff of summer air, riding the icy wind.

I give Rádni a shove to get him moving and elbow Aza in the ribs as I pass her in a run. The rest I leave to Grey and Sikhim. I remember a spot where we might be safe, if we get there in time. Wind and rain seem to get even worse when I near the cliff, plus there's a virtual torrent running down the slope. It's stumble, slip and scramble on. Finally I reach the sheer rock. No way to climb it against the cascade tumbling down, so I break out the grappling hooks. The first throw is a miss, the second also, but just when panic starts to take over, the rope catches somewhere. It resists a frantic tug and then I'm already halfway up the cliff. There's an overhang, with a narrow horizontal rift below, and that's where we are heading. A good deal of the mountain above us slopes down to this particular outcrop, so there's a lot of rain funnelled over this cliff, a solid curtain of water all around the little cave. That should keep it off. The Orcs race up the rope before I can check if it's really secure. But from their point of view, it's certainly worth the risk. The rest isn't far behind. With everyone somehow wedged between the dripping rocks, breath gets a chance to catch up.

"It was so beautiful," Aza says, looking dazed. And absolutely uncharacteristically entranced.

Well, she's unquestionably right. Imagine the most magnificent garden you've ever seen in a dream – this is ten times better. A stretch of gorgeous flowers, swaying gently under what seems to be a bank of dawn-kissed mist. A soft breeze drives the haze slightly ahead. Most beautiful, indeed. Alluring would be another word, captivating, enthralling. I've seen grown men, hardened veterans, stand mesmerised until it was too late, while the swirling golden cloud reached out for them.

There's no Orcish word for it. Which is expressive in itself, as the Orcs like to call everything names. Foul names. But this is something so unnameable for them, that, if they absolutely have to speak about it, they use human terms. Fairy dust, for example. The most beautiful way to die, others call it. Once it caught you, if you're human, you choke on a mixture of finely ground soil and tiny seeds. Instant bouquet on your grave, too, you can expect the loveliest blooms imaginable to spring up from the still warm body. But in principle, it's just a thick cloud of dust, and if you're really lucky and stumble out of it by accident, you'll cough up golden mud for an hour or so, and taste the earthy tang on your tongue for a few days. Maybe you'll develop an understanding for the Orcish hate of all things beautiful, but there _is_ a chance to survive it. No such luck for the Orcs. Fairy dust makes their skin melt away, seedlings taking hold in the still writhing flesh, and what you get is a roughly man-shaped flowerbed crawling around for a few minutes, screeching in a slowly strangled voice. I sure as hell don't like Orcs, but that's a way to go I wouldn't wish even on them. Uruks fare in-between. They're harder to choke than a human, so they get more time to find a way out, but the stuff attacks their hides, too, if more slowly, so they better keep away as far as possible.

Which tends to be more difficult than it sounds. Fairy dust floats on a constant warm breeze, laden with the sweet, intoxicating fragrances of its trail of blossoms. A breeze with a mind of its own. There are good reasons why the Mordor Mountains aren't famous for horticulture. Why the native plant-life consists only of lichens, moss and a few lowly shrubs – and they have to fight mean and dirty to stay alive. The soil is meagre and acidic and water's scarce. Not speaking of all the hungry critters with their very own definition of 'edible'. Maybe that's why fairy dust clouds always head for the nearest life-form. Nutrients and moisture already assembled and one greedy maw less to worry about. Maybe they are just bent on wholesale destruction. They kill everything in their path, smothering weeds and animals alike under a blanket of gaudy splendour. And the more of a Mordor breed the victim is, the nastier the result.

Furthermore, while escaping the golden cloud is hard, fighting it is nearly impossible. Dust is impervious to blades. Fire can't hurt it, too, as the flames won't catch. The outermost seeds may smoulder for a moment but the next ones are too far off to keep the spark going, so the rest of the cloud ignores the torch and goes for the yielder.

On the plus side, if the Lady can play with the local weather, the Dark One, on his own territory, definitely can, too. What feels like the worst spell of malevolent meteorology in months, is actually the Land of Shadow defending itself. Part of the hypnotic swirling that makes the golden clouds so fascinating, is simply the visible outcome of clashing air-currents, while the beating rain keeps the cloud confined to a small space, washing away the settled dust and all but the most deeply rooted plants. Elvish soil and Elvish magic might cause the embedded seeds to grow anywhere and at unnatural speed, but they can't sustain them for long. Once the golden cloud has moved on, the hostile ground takes over and the garish flowers dwindle and die almost as fast as they sprang from the ground. They crumble into a fine silvery powder, quickly turning into grey slush. If they have the time to produce their own seeds, these too are washed away, to die somewhere deep down between the rocks in a lightless cavern.

The golden cloud, vaguely glimmering through the falling water surrounding us, wafted tentatively in our direction, causing the Orcs to shrink even further into the crevice, but then it stopped. It seems undecided whether to resume its slow uphill crawl or to defy the thundering cataract in an attempt to reach plenty of fresh meat. In a way that's good – the longer it stays at a certain point, the more of its substance is spent without doing further damage and the more the mountains can concentrate their fury on it. On the other hand, said fury is focused on our location and a sudden onslaught of frost can kill a warm-blooded creature just as dead as a delicate flower. Not to mention the fact that playing the bait always includes the risk of the bait being taken.

On cue the golden menace shifts nearer. It's getting close enough to discern the rainbow flicker of the flowers underneath, constantly changing as the scree is washed out beneath them. It pays a high prize to claw its way against the flood and the wind funnelled along the cliff but apparently seven big warm bodies seem worth the expense. Once it breaks through the waterfall, the overhang will provide the same shelter from wind and rain for the fairy dust as it does for us, leaving nowhere to run.

The bottom end of the cascade turns into yellow froth. If a third of the fine powder makes it through the heavy curtain of water, that'll be quite a feat – and more than enough to kill us. Already a small pool of golden light coalesces in the gloom beneath us. One of the Orcs makes for a headlong plunge down the cliff.

Grey holds him back. "Wait," he says, "wait for the last possible moment."

With the dust cloud below growing more substantial by the minute, that won't be far from now.

Sikhim murmurs something to the Uruk beside him, and the big black suddenly looks a good deal more cheerful.

The downdraft of the falling water finally overcome, the golden cloud starts rising – and something considerably darker than rain splashes the cliff it started to scale.

There is the familiar rush of hot air, accompanied by an ominous crackle. Touching near-freezing rock with a naked flame is a trick they use in mining to loosen the ore. You usually avoid sitting on that particular slab at that time, though, but an avalanche or solid rockslide is the only known way to stop a fairy dust cloud before it runs out on its own. Every droplet of burning hellfire has become the centre of a spider web of cracks racing over the rock, spreading like ripples in a pond, until, with an almost human groan, the ledge we crouch on is suddenly three inches shorter. The whole front face of the cliff drops about a foot, seemingly in one piece, then the rock folds like a sheet, to bury the golden cloud under tons of stone. Icy water gushes over the mound, channelled by slabs of rock reaching into the waterfall, to form a quickly rising pool. Steam and floating clumps of fire are the only marks of something untoward about it.

Thakmor allows himself a triumphant grin.

Bad idea.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

A glowing dome, forming momentary in the churning puddle, is the only warning before a golden pillar shoots up from the rubble, the whole rest of the fairy dust cloud concentrated into one solid beam of angry, beautiful death. It's thirty feet high and rising before even the water it shoved aside has splashed back from the surrounding rocks.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Funny, how things change when you grind them down finely enough. A solid bar of iron may be molten in the fire, but never burned; yet blow a handful of fine iron filings through a torch and you'll get a fireball. Fairy dust, on the other hand…

Being dripping, soaking wet to the skin has its advantages, too. Otherwise we would be toast. Burning oil ricocheted in the miniature surf beneath us, hit the bottom end of the pillar and turned it into so much glowing tinder. The upward surge fanned the embers and sucked them right into the heart of the writhing golden knot forming in front of us.

The resulting explosion blows off the screen of water in a jet of steam and spray. Small to sizeable stone shards drop from the overhang. But we are lucky, most of the roof holds. What parts of the cloud the fireball didn't consume, it shattered to the four winds, and the angry elements take care of the rest. We wait a while before climbing down, just to be sure, but nothing lightens the grey and murky slopes, anymore.

At the foot of the cliff Aza stoops to pick up a half-crushed blossom, inhales the sweet scent and watches the delicate petals curl up and disintegrate.

"So beautiful," she says wistfully. But there is an ironic undertone in her voice, and when she looks up, the telltale Phuma-Ar sneer is firmly back in place. When the Uruk starts laughing, we all fall in heartily. It's mainly relief to be alive, but it's the first concerted action as a group, too. Maybe we'll make a squad, some day.


	4. Chapter 4

Bonus feature, dedicated to my brother, who in the guise of Hakim, the tale-teller, kept many a RPG session from sinking into oblivion half an hour after the last die was cast, but instead turned them into truly memorable adventures.

* * *

The evening after the fairy dust almost got us, Rádni suddenly bends towards Sikhim with expectant eyes and asks, "Sir, would you tell us of the day, when the Eagle died?"

I bet with myself whether the tall Haradrim will react at all – and lose both stakes.

"Listen then," is the answer, "listen and learn." Silence falls like a blanket. Even the Orcs seem eager to hear the tale. Our tiny fire suddenly crackles like a furnace. Then the singsong voice washes over it.

"A long, long time ago, when my far ancestors,  
And yours, were naught but distant dreams that swirled  
Through the eternal realms of those unborn,  
The Ancient Ones held council and they called  
The Lords of Sky and of the Highest Peaks.

And they said: You, who ride the winds and rule the mountain tops,  
Will you be our friends in peace and allies, should war come,  
And will you come to our aid when we require it,  
As we will come, should you have need of us?  
Then both we will be stronger than apart.

And those who soar the sky on mighty wings  
And reign unchallenged where their eyries crown the cliffs,  
They said: If we'd be friends in peace's sweet dreams  
And allies in war's raging tempests,  
And aid each other when the need arises,  
Then we will be indeed much stronger than alone.

And thus a league was forged that held across the ages.

So when a queen of Ancient birth and right,  
Called forth the sons of Thorondor the Great,  
According to the rules of long-gone days,  
The Giant Eagles heeded to the summons.  
To lose their first and foremost privilege.

Come here, She said, oh Mighty Wings of Manwë,  
Come here and drink so deeply from my pool,  
The golden light will further ancient friendship.  
Then you and I again will fight the shadow,  
As sun and moon fight darkness day and night.

And so the heartless light engulfed the proudest,  
The noblest sons of stormwind and the sky.  
Freedom had been their soul, their very essence,  
Now others choose their battles and their deaths.

And thus a bond was forged, defying old alliance.

Go forth and hunt, my hounds in golden feathers,  
Go forth and kill and rend and slay and maim,  
Destroy all those outside the Firstborn races.  
Go forth and be killed, sung the Golden Witch-Queen,  
Go forth and never see your homely peaks again.

And forth they went – though bound in unseen shackles,  
Their mighty wings still ride the highest winds.  
Eastward they soared, high over golden meadows,  
To where the rising sun and rising fire  
Meet in the barren mountains and be one.

Those whom the Ring has bound won't fight each other,  
So never would their strength be met in flight.  
The Nine, upon their wingéd steeds would shun them,  
And never would the Eagles seek them out.  
They glut their claws and mighty beaks on others,  
On those who cannot leave the solid ground.

And thus in all but name they became dragons.

Of one of them I will now tell, my children,  
A tale of how he met his death, and thus,  
By falling from the sky in broken splendour,  
Escaped at last the curse of golden light,  
And dying found the freedom he had lost.

I cannot tell his name, for I don't know it,  
But worthy to be told it was, I know.  
So to his memory I give a name of glory,  
Redwing I call him, Son of Storm and Sunset,  
Fire danced on his wings under the light.

Whence he had come, before the light did claim him,  
I also cannot tell, so I will call  
Him Highlord of the Northern Winds, which bore him  
When first I set my eyes upon his form.

And thus he shall be known and well remembered.

For those of you who never saw the Eagles,  
I will describe them. See them through my eyes!  
Full fifteen fathoms was his mighty wingspan,  
His body length six fathoms and a half.  
Four times a tall man's size he stood, when roosted.

His curvéd beak shone like a newborn weapon,  
Kissed by the furnace's blast and anvil's stroke.  
Well-honed it was, anointed with bright lifeblood,  
But not by far his only choice to fight.  
His talons made your blades seem naught but toys.

But greater than his weapons or his sheer size,  
More dangerous, marvellous to behold,  
Was how he danced and dove fast as an arrow,  
And faster still, when he swooped from above.  
His greatest virtue was, his strongest weapon,  
The mastery to ride the wicked winds.

And thus he took uncounted lives – uncaring.

Until the day, that is, which I will now describe.  
That day, some fourteen full moons in the past,  
A summer day, so full of light and cloudless,  
That no one thought the sky could offer threat.  
A fatal mistake, as time soon would prove.

The northern wind had seemed at first so welcome,  
Driving away some of the scorching heat.  
But with the coolness rode the chill of cold death.  
Unseen by all he neared, by none detected,  
Out of the sun he came on silent wings.

Death was his aim and death the only warning.  
The twisting bodies plunging to the ground,  
From high above the Lord of Northwind dropped them,  
To shatter on the unforgiving stones.

And thus was marked the coming of the Eagle.

Well-chosen was the place of his first striking,  
Too far from any forces that could aid,  
The barren slopes made warr'ors easy pickings,  
Great wings swept all the bold ones off the ground.  
And giant beak and claws run red and black.

Three scores and ten, the number of his killings,  
Three scores and ten the mountains had to give,  
Before the Eagle made his first and final  
Misjudgement of the things that lay ahead.  
He turned onto some prey that had found cover.

The Eagle's Bane, this place is named since then.  
Here mountains' fury had in long gone ages  
Thrown up some grisly spikes of solid rock.  
Twisted and bent, and still twice of a man's height,  
They broke the Eagle's power from above.  
And fate alone has thrown them in our path.

And thus Fate and the Eagle met in battle.

Fate chose the place but fate did not the killing,  
Instead it chose some warriors to fight.  
Of seven men I will now tell the story,  
Of seven men and one born, too, with wings.  
A golden hawk took part in this great battle.

Among the seven men four bowstrings whispered  
To arrows of the joy of flight and kill.  
Yet they could never meet the Eagle's swiftness,  
Or if they did, they scarcely grazed the wings.  
That is, until the hawk took to the air.

She was a simple bird, none of the wisdom,  
The age, the greatness of Redwing was hers.  
Saqar her name, a pet men used for hunting,  
Fierce bird of prey but smaller than his claws.

And thus the Great One never stopped her coming.

Of all the opponents Redwing encountered,  
On all his forays to these mountainsides,  
I fancy that none ever shared his graceful  
Ability to ride the wicked winds.  
And never dared a puny bird confront him.

She could not do him harm – though she died trying –  
The giant beak snapped once and she was gone.  
But doing so, he changed track, just for moments,  
Short moments when he did not charge the men.  
Short moments when his speed was curbed to meet her.

A black bow was bent back by brawny shoulders,  
An ebon arrow sped high through the air.  
The iron tip cut through the golden feathers,  
Where mighty shoulder joined the mighty chest.  
The mountains shook as Redwing screeched in fury,  
Not fatal was this wound but for his pride.

And thus pride's red clouds blinded his clear vision.

A thunderbolt of red, he struck the archer,  
Black rock sent flying as the claws hit hard.  
Full fury, scything, slicing, ripping, rending –  
A high prize did the bowman have to pay.  
A higher still was due from the great Eagle.

Two foemen had he trapped beside the archer,  
But four more held the ground beneath his wings.  
Two bowstrings sang, two blades sought for a weakness,  
And fiery feathers fell under their swings.  
Redwing took to the sky, wings red and bloodied.

He sought the mountain tops to use the high winds,  
To add the speed of height to his assault.  
But he had lost his fluid grace to anger  
And brought another arrow back with him.

And thus his wounded pride proved his undoing.

Three times he dove enraged into the spires,  
Three times his talons glistened with fresh blood,  
Three times his own blood reddened the obsidian,  
As steel and claw sought flesh and met their goal.  
But no thought to abandon strife was formed.

The black rock bulwarks crumbled as the Eagle,  
With all his weight and power, tried to force  
The stones apart, to reach the puny creatures  
That dared to show defiance to his might.  
But heart-of-mountain-born some shards resisted.

Instead of yielding – so it seemed – they called forth  
The days that formed them, old volcanic wrath.  
Red fire once again adorned the mountain,  
Red fire and bright golden sparks to match.  
But borrowed plumes brought forth the blazing colours,  
As Redwing's feathers fell among the rocks.

And thus his own red fire marked his falling.

He smashed a bow, when first he hit the archer,  
He snapped a second with his next attack.  
Good steel was shattered where the mighty beak hit,  
No armour could withstand his forceful thrusts.  
But still he could not break the fierce resistance.

Spiteful black shafts rose high, cut golden feathers,  
Rose high and tumbled down, steeped deep in red.  
A crimson rain fell on the ebon rubble,  
And joined the streamlets soaked up by the ground.  
On this hot day the thirsty earth drank deeply.

He proved himself true master of the free sky.  
Riding the wicked winds, just one last time,  
Then down he swooped, down, going ever faster,  
And finally the black rocks did succumb.

And thus he drove the enemy from cover.

Too late it was, the Eagle could not follow,  
Black stone had finished what bright steel began.  
The mighty wings no longer held the power  
To heave the giant body off the ground.  
But still the beak and talons loomed full danger.

Three scores and ten, red vengeance screamed its challenge,  
Death to the Golden Witch and all her serfs!  
And reckless they closed in, bent on the killing,  
As men do often do, drawn by revenge.  
Redwing still might have died with all foes slain.

But just another fight was fought this minute  
Behind the golden eyes that stared so wild.  
A fight unseen, yet merciless and bitter,  
As fierce as any match of steel might be.  
The Eagle's soul fought hard against the shackles  
Which now, as death approached, began to flag.

And thus the Witch abandoned him – to freedom.

The men attacked, the Eagle drove them backwards,  
The golden fury still burned through his mind.  
But half-hearted his fighting was, unfocused,  
At times he seemed to strike at unseen foes.  
Half-stunned we thought him, but we were mistaken.

The blades did cut, the beak did render havoc,  
More blood was spilled, to slake the barren ground.  
But when the Eagle suddenly did throw back  
His head to scream like thunder in the sky,  
No blade, no barbéd point did cause this anguish.

A new light set the golden orbs afire,  
More lively than the cold gleam of before.  
"Free, free at last!" the Eagle cried, I tell you,  
As clear as you and I these birds may speak.

And thus the curse washed out with Redwing's lifeblood.

Not much remains, few words are left unspoken,  
The Eagle, for one last time, spread his wings,  
Then folded them in front, forming a mantle,  
And died – true Lord of Northwind – facing north.  
His spirit joined the storm, forever soaring.

Upheld by mighty wings he died unfalling.  
The empty shell still stood majestic there.  
But war did ravage it, made it a trophy,  
A warning for the Witch-Queen and her serfs.  
Yet somehow I do think he might approve.

A warning to his kin might find his consent,  
A warning about what befalls the one  
Who trusts in ancient friendship, heeds the soft words,  
And drinks carelessly from the golden pool.  
The bloodlight of the setting sun may carry  
This warning and his soul back to his home.

And thus return him to his homely mountains.

To close the story I will tell you shortly,  
About the men who fought him, whom he marked,  
As fate saw fit to pit them against Redwing.  
Though born apart, likely to fight each other,  
The golden terror forged them into one.

Tall was the archer, whom he tore to ribbons,  
Of ebon blood and frightful to behold.  
His second, though more handsome on the surface,  
A fighter with the lion's burning soul.  
The second bowman shrouded in his lost life.

The second swordsman, young in years but fearsome  
In anger and in fight – as these are one.  
Two other bowmen, short in height but stalwart  
And hateful in their strife against the light.  
A desert hawk, and me – at last – the spearman.

And thus the story ends of Redwing's battle."


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry for the long delay, folks. Let's just say, Real Life took precedence.

The story is not abandoned, though, and it won't be, I'll see this through until the end! It just might take a while...

* * *

It's not much, just a square of thick stone walls, dark and brooding, two thirds up the mountain. But someone who just waded five days through wet scree, under an endless rain of sleet and a cutting wind, welcomes any piece of solid masonry as the cosy haven of hospitality.

Not this one. Even Orcs hate to be stationed here. It's a square of thick walls, in the middle of nowhere but within the reach of the rather ill-tempered summit weather. Plus, more often than not, downwind of the Three Sisters, three bright yellow outcrops of pure sulphur, on a cliff some twenty miles away, presiding over a rift constantly releasing noxious fumes. No roof, just a little court inside, covered by half a foot of murky water and an unfathomable depth of mud. Put four patrols inside, and it's getting crowded. A tiny, ramshackle hut, I wouldn't stable goats in, huddles in a corner. It is the only building within the walls, and there isn't even a floor in it, just a black hole. The whole structure is named after it. A handful of Orcs scowl from the meagre shelter of the breastworks, and watch enviously how we step out of the rain.

Black Hole Tower is the fortified entrance to a maze of caves. The doorstep of the hut is the last foothold for almost three hundred feet of pitch-black darkness – unless, of course, the lift is up. It is, understandably. I have yet to see what Grey or Sunshine would do, otherwise. Like anybody else they wouldn't like to wait in the swamped courtyard. And no one here would dare to evoke their… displeasure. At the bottom of the shaft, there is plenty of room for the incoming patrols and the fifty-odd Orcs guarding the tower itself – and hating every second of it. Don't get me wrong here, they like the caves, but they hate manning the rain-beaten, wind-whipped tower. And the certain knowledge that they have to do just that, every few hours, makes them an exceptionally grumpy lot, even for Orcs. There are also magazines, under the care of Throqu, another ill-humoured Orc. Whether he likes his job or not, he is doing it well. Anywhere else I would have serious misgivings about the quality of stores under the supervision of a particularly vicious Orc, but Grey might get indignant if he finds the supplies inadequate. And Sunshine would chew him up. Literally.

If you know the way through the dark – something it takes a cat-eyed Orc and a few hundred years of experience for – there is even a route through the mountain. Kind of a shortcut, actually, but more pits and flimsy rope bridges than solid ground underfoot. And those chasms with a red glow and a hot sulphuric updraft are just the harmless ones. There are also a number of other inhabitants, from pale hand-sized spiders over slimy things that lurk in the dark subterranean streams to the creatures which I only know as gleaming eyes at the other side of a bottomless abyss. Crimson eyes the size of my fist, a foot apart, ten feet off the ground and fifteen feet off the ceiling or the nearest wall.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Squad One – plus, of course, their escorts from Squad Four – came in shortly before us and are tentatively making themselves at home between the rocks bathed in flickering torchlight.

Customary quarter for the incoming patrols is a huge trefoil-shaped hall, a merger of several smaller caves. Jutting pillars of basalt separate the different chambers, without closing them off completely. Enough space to keep each squad to itself and still have some lonely corners left for those seeking solitude. Not a feature I would go for in a Mordor cavern. The mouth of the entrance tunnel leads into a small court, fringed with sharp rocks and the relatively small openings into the different chambers.

We are just settling in our branch of the cave when Squad Three arrives, unsurprisingly latest since they have the longest way to reach the tower, but they are also already one man short. Grey takes one look at them and asks coolly, "What happened?"

Shaen knows perfectly well that Grey, on principle, never criticises a man outside his own sphere of command – and Sunshine couldn't care less about the life of a rookie. Nevertheless, I see him brace his shoulders before he says, laconically, "Sword-flags."

"Sword-flags?" Rádni repeats behind me, in the puzzled voice of a man who knows he isn't talking botany here. He is. Your harmless wayside flower can get extremely murderous when a cloud of fairy dust just wafted by.

"Ever cut yourself on a blade of grass?" I ask the boy back. "Just imagine the grass cutting you, on purpose. And hiding behind a pretty bloom, of course."

I can imagine the scene, vividly. A new recruit, inexperienced but eager to get out of the dreadful, ashen bleakness of Mordor – it's not as bad further in, where the food for the giant armies is grown, but between the Black Gate and Mount Doom, where the big camps are, it's an ugly place to be. Eyeing Shaen with a mixture of fear and resentment but certainly not trust, probably ignoring the Orc and avoiding Aren, said recruit just found out that bleakness does not have to involve volcanic ashes. So, splashing sullenly along a swamp full of annoying critters, ugly local weeds and the occasional intruder with its golden sheen that makes them look dead even when thriving, he suddenly spots this one familiar, beautiful flower. He steps closer, off the beaten track, to get a better look, and suddenly a sword-shaped leaf jumps from the ground, right through his foot. He cries, falls, and all the other leaves, that should have been pliable greenery, don't yield for the fraction of an inch. Like falling into a thicket of spearheads. Quick but messy. I explain as much to Rádni.

He stares at me for a moment, trying to find out if I'm serious, then says slowly, "My mother had a bed of sword-flags in the garden, they're her favourite flowers."

And now you'll never think of them again, purely as a happy memory. Life is a bitch. And the Golden Lady is an even worse one.

"The rest got really careful afterwards," Shaen meanwhile continues, maybe in defence of himself or the newbies or maybe even both. "Guess, the other _dalgums_ will stay alive for a while."

_Dalgum_ is Black Speech and means, roughly, 'useless thing'. It's not very nice but generally used among mountain guards of all races to refer to rookies. Tyros. Greenhorns. Yet, quite possibly, he is right. If the other new recruits learned a lesson from their unfortunate comrade's demise and kept a close eye on Shaen and the other experienced men, and did what they did, chances are that they got the edge that will enable them to survive. Because Shaen _is_ good. He wouldn't be Sunshine's second, otherwise.

Speaking of the devil, Sunshine emerges from a cavern mouth and the three of them hold a short, low-spoken conference.

Whatever it was about, it is soon over, and Shaen swaggers into Squad Four's spacious domain to finally drop off his gear.

Rádni stares after him, caught between instinctive young-male-to-experienced-warrior hero worship, righteous outrage about the older man's callous discounting of human life and – hopefully – self-preservation. I grab his arm before he can do something incredibly stupid and set him to the task of checking every last inch of a good hundred yards of rope for frayed patches. That should keep the boy occupied and, above all, out of sight and harm's way until Shaen has found another outlet for the dangerous mood he is bound to be in, now. That man has a devilish knack for sensing stares at his back and a great love for the bloody game of cat and mouse.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Well, I'm not too bad in registering the more obvious stares myself. Trying not to show the chill running down my spine, I look over my shoulder and catch the last of the sly, appreciative grin Shaen is giving me, for running interference with a potential toy, while passing our quarters on the way out. Turning to leave the hall, he steps towards the tunnel mouth the exact moment when our new Uruk tries to enter. Instantly tension hits the ceiling. Humans get out of the way for an Uruk, that's one of the certainties of life. And anyone but Sunshine gets out of the way for Shaen, that's another certainty of life. Serious clash of principles.

Thakmor draws himself up to his full height, Shaen drops into a slight crouch. That makes one about a foot taller than the other. It looks like the bear and the wolf for a moment, but it's more the tiger and the panther. There is speed on both sides, strength – though that more than a bit in favour of the big black –, inborn fighting lust and general lack of pity. Overall I'd call it even, but as the Uruk doesn't know Shaen, I'll bet on the latter.

Grey visibly disapproves. Probably because it's unbecoming of a man to recognise the challenge of an Uruk and thereby get dragged down to their level, or something – the man lives by a whole codex of unwritten rules you would have to get born into to understand. But he won't interfere.

Rádni, on the other hand, is getting up. "W… ", he tries to say before toppling over because I kicked his legs out under him.

"You've got a death wish or something?" I hiss at him.

"But it isn't right!" he declares furiously. "We shouldn't be fighting each other! We…"

Oh dear. Worse than a death wish, the boy has a romantic notion in his head.

"We? Look around you, kid, and wake up! _We_ include humans, Uruks and Orcs. _We_ aren't really friends. Hell, _we_ don't even agree on basic questions like 'when referring to a baby as a 'sweet child', does that mean cute or tasty?'."

"That's not what they are fighting about!"

"No, these two agree about tasty."

"How can you joke about this?" he snaps. Which I don't. "If they're so keen on fighting, why don't they take it out on the enemy?"

I sigh. "Listen, this is the war against weeds and vermin, don't you get that? The most worthy enemy I ever had in front of my blade was a silver wolf. I haven't seen a live Elf since the day I left home, alright? Glorious battles aren't something you can hope for at the mountain guards." Okay, Squad Four can, but they are not in our league, not even remotely.

Whatever answer the boy had for that, the ominous sound of steel on steel cuts him short. All patrol Orcs and most of the locals have formed a loose circle around the opponents, wide enough to not get caught in the middle if one of them suddenly jumps aside, but close enough to… take advantage of any obvious losers. They are pleasantly surprised by tonight's entertainment. Aza, securing herself a ledge with a good view, legs dangling, obviously feels the same. She couldn't look more pleased if she'd personally set up the two males to fight for her. The two Dunlendings from Squad One are betting and their archer is in charge of the stakes. The rest varies between fearful curiosity, anticipation and the scornful 'I won't watch such a disgraceful display' attitude Grey demonstrates.

I, for one, am not above watching a good fight, so I climb a rock, not as exposed as Aza's but with a good look, too, and grin silently when Rádni, after a moment's hesitation, joins me. And it is a good fight. When his first wild swipes gained him nothing but a few shallow but painful cuts from the blade that miraculously materialised in Shaen's empty fist, Thakmor became cautious and now there is an almost dance-like quality in the way they weave, attack in lightning-fast thrusts and dodge the counterstrokes.

Shaen looks like the cat that emptied the whole cream jug, never mind the fact that no human can match the sheer strength or endurance of the Uruk-hai. Cat and mouse are rather undefined roles in _this_ game, and skilled and powerful as he is, he is still human. The longer the fight draws on, the more the advantage will lean towards his opponent and while they are not really fighting for death, the big black could nonetheless seriously maim him. And he will – for the sheer fun of it. And to make clear, once and for all, that standing up to an Uruk – and him in particular – is hazardous for a human's health.

Sunshine, appearing from the shadows as darkness suddenly solidifying around a pair of glowing eyes, watches the fight for a few moments and grins in the broad, fang-baring way only a big black can grin. Then he decides that he's seen enough and spoils the show for everyone else. Wrapping a giant paw around each of the combatants' necks, he breaks them up.

Shaen knows better than to resist, Thakmor doesn't. Or maybe he's just too far gone with fighting lust to care. His claws slash out in a swipe that would send my head flying and harmlessly bounces off Sunshine's massive skull. The Orcs scramble. Sunshine roars, more in surprise than anything else, but it's still a sound that fills the hall with angry echoes and hits your stomach like a sucker punch, to send chilly shivers racing along the spine. The rest of the spectators hurry for cover as Thak is thrown into a somersault that carries him straight across the entrance hall and then we get to see a genuine dressing-down, Uruk-style. By the time Sunshine is finished with him – incidentally the exact moment Grey decides to get on his feet – the younger Uruk is bleeding for real and reduced to a crumpled heap at the foot of a rock pillar.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

They really should know better. But we are speaking Black Hole Tower here, uncrowned king of quite a number of lousy assignments along the patrol routes. With the exception of one or two guys too smart for their own good – and their superiors' liking – only the dregs of the barrel end up here. The sight of a big black downed and bleeding is too tempting to resist. Half a dozen scrawny figures pounce.

It's a reflex. I'm jumping rocks, while Grey's hound becomes a dark streak full of teeth and Grey clears thirty paces in the blink of an eye. The last ten feet in free fall give me a lot of momentum and I can feel his spine give under me when I hit the Orc feet first on the back. The hound has another one by the throat and shakes him like a rat, Grey takes care of the third and then Thak gets his arms free and another two get shredded. The last one turns to run and crumbles, neatly decapitated by the Phuma-Ar half-moon blade sailing through the air. The newbies might have taken a moment longer to react, but they are all here now, even the Orcs, a protective circle around our team mate. Rádni, always one for a hands-on approach, reaches out to help the Uruk get up and the big black is surprised enough to take the offered hand.

It's something outsiders rarely come to appreciate, but mountain guards always close ranks in the face of outside attacks. Call us inconsequent or crazy, if you like, but when the pond starts rippling and the ground starts crawling, a clear and categorical distinction between US and THEM is the only way to get even a fighting chance to make it back from beyond the mountains. So we might hate each other's guts and act on it _internally_, but if you try to pick a fight and be not one of_ us_ – Black Hole barrel dregs just won't cut it – then woe betide you, you're dead meat. In this case, attack one of us and all of us will hit back. _All_ being the operational word. Squad Four forms a grim wall on our left, the new Ones and Threes take a little more time to form up but they learned that rule, too.

With order properly re-established, Grey nods to his hound and the beast speeds off, to take a dip into the nearby stream and get the black blood off his wiry coat – and probably his tongue. The dog doesn't feed on dead Orcs any more than he would on dead humans, though possibly for different reasons. I'm not sure if it's his master's disapproval or their own vile taste that deters him here. No accounting for taste, of course, our black-blooded squad members eye the torn remains with good appetite. Aza, on the other hand, regards Rádni with a somewhat similar expression.

"Ah, finally," she drawls, "the boy starts looking like a man."

Said boy ruins the effect by blushing to the tips of his ears and drops his gaze to stare at his feet. Which are standing in a puddle of rapidly congealing black blood. Blood that is also found everywhere else below the rose-tinted ear tips – not entirely surprising after lending a hand to an Uruk completely drenched in Orc (and his own) blood. Taking pity on the frantic expression on his face, I give the kid directions to find the same underground river Grey's hound went to, and some stern warnings not to drown in the treacherous stream. It's icy, the current is both stronger and swifter than it looks and the ground slopes down gently for about a foot or two before dropping perpendicularly to depths unknown. Rádni barely nods thanks before disappearing and I finally allow myself to grin. He _did_ look funny enough, not even Grey's reproachful glare can change that, and at least I'm not laughing out loud as some of the Fours do.

"Found yourself another kid brother, huh?" Aren asks, still chuckling, and my blood turns to ice.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Everything turns to ice, everything freezes. Words have deserted me – as if there was a fitting come-back for _that_ – and sanity obviously as well, for I don't notice myself moving before I run smack into Sunshine. Even his massive bulk gives for the fraction of an inch before he stops me. Each of his fists is as big as my head, and when he closes them just a little tighter, my bones will shatter like ivory ice. Part of my brain knows that. Even that part doesn't protest, it simply notes the fact. I have other things on my mind.

One thing, to be precise. _Make. Him. Pay._

Two years ago, come next autumn, I watched the shiny-armoured, pointy-eared bastards kill, crush and burn all and everything I'd called 'home' in my life and I did nothing, 'cause there was nothing I could do but turn and run. All the months since, I watched my brother's ghost haunt the empty shell of his body and could do nothing. The few fights I got into, in Mordor, were mostly for him, but that's just what elder siblings are supposed to do when their kid brother gets bullied. Ten days ago, a piece of nightmare swallowed my brother alive and I could do nothing. Not even the monster that tried to kill me four days ago was something I could fight.

Aren, on the other hand, I can fight. Not with any realistic chance of coming out alive, but that's not the point.

Grey's arms wrap around my chest and arms in a grip less bruising but even more effectively immobilising than Sunshine's, and between the two of them, they drag me off into a tunnel. I don't really fight them; I just try to get back to my single-mindedly pursued target.

As I find out later, Sunshine has some experience with this kind of situation. As I find out later, Aren now finally has a really good idea of how he looks like when he goes berserk. As I find out pretty soon, other than letting the rage run out of targets and collapse on itself, the best way, to snap someone out of it, is cold water. Lots of cold water. When I come back to my senses, I draw in a lungful of icy subterranean river and by the time I have coughed that up, Sunshine is gone like he never existed, Grey leans at the cavern wall like a misplaced piece of statuary and Rádni is the one to awkwardly pat my back. He is stammering apologies about how he didn't know that the blood he washed off would attract predators and it's all his fault. I have no idea what he's talking about, but leave it there. Whatever cock-and-bull story Grey fed him, to protect that precious touch of innocence the boy – by some miracle – still possesses, I won't contradict it. I'm just glad, he doesn't know what happened after he left.

"Nonsense!" I croak, "I should have warned you."

Seeing that I'm more or less back to normal, the statue comes back to life and departs with barely a nod of greeting. Just before he melts into the darkness of the tunnel, Grey throws back over his shoulder, "Don't forget your sword."

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Sword? What sword? Rádni seems to know, saying "oh" and scrambling to fish something from the turbid silt at the edge of the water. The glowing silt.

Before I can warn him, his hand plunges in and pulls out a short sword, the blade alive with azure witchfire. Ah, yes, that sword. I used the quiet evenings of the last patrol run to turn the Elven blade from Khural's chest into something I could use in a fight. It's not the knife, it was for the big black, though pretty short for a sword. Nevertheless, it's lightweight and excellent steel, making it a good fallback weapon, and one the Orcs won't try to nab, since the blue-glinting metal sort of burns them. It happened to be on hand when I went jumping rocks for Thak and was still in my hand when… afterwards. Thinking back, I realise that Sunshine was trying hard not to look at me, when he lifted me off the ground – though no one ever accused the big black of being shy – and the light on his face was not the usual reddish glow of the torches.

Uh-oh.

I've heard the stories about Elven blades glowing blue in the presence of Orcs but with two Orcs at ten feet distance and nothing more but an indigo tint to the steel in the firelight, I didn't think much of it. Another piece of Elven-themed superstition, I thought. Now, watching the afterglow slowly dying away, with Rádni babbling about a blue flame lighting half a mile of river tunnel, I swear I can see the sword smile. A thin, cruel smile, running along the curved edge of the blade. I consider throwing the twisted thing into the stream.

How many centuries, make that _millennia_, of hatred went into that steel at its forging? Folded and welded and molten into the very substance of the metal. Then fed more, whenever the blade was unsheathed, until it spilled over and shone like a light.

Until it… acquired a taste for it. Now it will gleam with anticipation, whenever the object of the wielder's hate comes close, hoping to draw the two together and be slaked, once more.

Rádni tries to hand it to me, wonder in his eyes. "I didn't know swords could do this," he says, "must be really handy, at times."

Handy. Handy? A thing that feeds on your strongest emotions, turning into a sapphire flame when the food gets real tasty, and don't tell me that's all it does. If steel had a tongue, it would be licking its lips right now.

The boy must have read something in my eyes and back-pedals. "Master Grey said, ancient magic was wrought into the steel to warn the wielder of approaching dangers."

Dangers. To whom? But the more I think about it, the more I feel that 'master' Grey – ye gods, where did the kid get that title from? – might have a point.

"The man is usually right, kid, so you better keep an eye on this blade, too, alright?"

He chafes a bit at being called 'kid', but agrees.

Good. Hopefully, he'll get enough forewarning to not get caught in the rubble next time I snap.

For everyone has a breaking point and I just found mine, and now that a path is trampled that way, I fear it will be easier to follow next time. I don't think I could live with myself if I hurt the boy.

Because, damn you, Aren, damn you to hell, but your thoughtless words were right on target. I _have_ found myself another kid brother to look after.


	6. Chapter 6

If Sunshine hasn't had the newbies scared stiff before, the very sound of his name will make them shudder when this is over. The summit route always makes the giant Uruk cranky. Well, I'd be nervous, too, if my survival depended on the capacity of a much abused length of twisted hemp to bear a five hundred pound weight. Not that the big blacks would get nervous, oh no, they merely get… violent.

Today he's worse than usual, though. Must have gotten up on the wrong side of the pail, or something. Squad Four takes one look at him and vacates the cave, making sure to stay out of sight until the big black has had some breakfast, at least. It won't make him mellow, but hopefully a bit less likely to bite.

Alas, no such luck. He backhands Shaen for not getting the Threes out of his way. The man rolls with the punch and manages to stay on his feet; the less experienced Threes get thrown around like ninepins. He slams Throqu into a wall for not outfitting the Ones fast enough, and might have lost half of the latter at the first precipice, if not for Grey's insistence to check the rookies' gear regardless of the big black's scowl. He kicks Pughduf for… for being an Orc, probably, and gets a shrill-voiced piece of mind for it, but from a long, safe distance.

He's seen stalking out of the gate, at last, with a collective sigh of relief, setting a punishing pace of march with his long legs, and every one but the Ones, doomed to follow him, is glad to see him leave.

"Is he always this," all-encompassing hand wave, "grumpy in the morning?" Rádni asks, halfway down the mountain, at what he deems a wide enough distance from the piebald, pointed ears.

Aza laughs, making some off-colour remark about the big black not getting laid often enough, that leaves the boy a bit white-rimmed around the eyes, before skipping recklessly over the rocks to reach a position at the front of the group. The path downhill is obvious enough not to need an experienced guide for a while, and soon the leading position becomes more or less friendly contested for between Thaknor and the Phuma'Ar.

The two have fallen into a half bantering, half serious sort of competition, that reminds me an awful lot of the thing Khûral and Grey had going.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

We are walking down the last slope of the foothills, when Rádni looks ahead, says, "Oh, look, a…" in a voice filled with pleasant surprise, stops, and all of a sudden starts cursing violently.

A fantastic mix of his rolling back-water dialect, Westron, Black Speech, and… ah, make that half a dozen languages at their vilest, streams after him as he storms forward with terrible purpose in his bearing. He displays an impressive ear for foreign tongues, a lively imagination – and a similarly spectacular lack of common sense. Aza has her hands on the handles of an unknown number of sharp objects and the slight hesitation of her stance is merely indecision about which of them to use first. She probably understands as little of the tirade as I do, but enough to recognise the person, whose ancestry, mating preferences and favourite past-times are being so colourfully maligned, to be female. There aren't that many members of the fairer sex within hearing distance. Ignoring the furious Phuma-Ar, Rádni wrestles the Orcish angle-blade from his backpack without slowing his near-run and attacks a strip of golden grass stalks that rim the edge of a barren stretch of earth like an Elven row, that last row of corn left behind on the field during harvest, to assure, according to tradition – superstition – another good harvest next year. The razor-sharp blade makes short thrift of the tainted plants but Rádni isn't satisfied.

"Give me the hellfire!" he demands, yes, demands, from Thakmor, in complete reversal of his usual shy demeanour.

The big black's first – and half-automatic – reaction is to lift a clawed fist to teach the boy some manners, but then he looks at the yard-long blade with the wicked kink in it and the wild eyes behind it, and thinks better of it.

"Nah, you'll just fry yourself," he says, using the outstretched arm to push the boy aside. "You want to see them burn, uh? A nice bonfire from those weeds?" Only the Uruk-Hai can put that sort of gleeful rumble into words like _burrrn_ and _firrre_. It sounds like a gigantic cat purring in malicious delight. It's usually enough to send any sane man scrambling for the hills.

Rádni, on the other hand, simply nods impatiently, and the Uruk obliges him, unstopping the skin just a little bit, to swing it around in a wide arc that seems to produce nothing for a moment, until the tiny droplets flung around ignite and result in a rain of fire. The golden stalks go up like the dead straw they always were, while the surrounding shrubs smoulder and char, unwilling to burn brightly unless hit directly by the hellfire. We all gather beside it – well to the windward – to make sure the blaze doesn't get out of hand. I already had a bush fire at my heels once and it wasn't pretty. Not a problem this time, though, the flames die down soon enough, the embers get stomped out and we're ready to march on.

However, Thak is still irritated, so, stepping close enough to take advantage of his extra height and literally looking down even on the boy's gangly six-foot-two frame, he asks casually, "where did you learn to swing a Dakgal like this?"

"A what?" Hmm, colour the boy unimpressed. Miffed, at having to crane back his neck, would be more like it. "It's a sort of scythe, you know. And I grew up on a farm. How do you think the harvest gets from the field to the granary, huh?"

I don't think the Uruk, make that _any_ Uruk, has ever troubled himself with that question, but I see something that just might be a glimmer of respect, wash over the yellow eyes.

As quickly as it was ignited, the anger burns itself out. Grey waits until the young man's shoulders have dropped back into the customary position, to make sure his words are fully appreciated, then draws the boy aside for a short heart-to-heart. If I know the old chevalier, it comes under the heading of 'appropriate language in front of a member of the gentler sex', or something close enough. Rádni looks suitably chastised afterwards, but some embers continue to smoulder for the rest of the day. I doubt they will die down completely anytime soon. If ever.

They say, a sword is a sword is a sword, and even blades beaten into ploughshares still remember the taste of blood. True, as far as I know. But they usually don't tell you, it goes the other way, too. So Rádni, plough forged into a weapon, still retains a deep-rooted love for the soil and all that grows from it. He takes personal offence from the golden sheen, calling it a plague, a blight, a corruption of good and honest plants. So he throws himself into weeding out the afflicted vegetation with a vengeance, with a zeal, none of the rest of us can match or even understand.

He also wants to know all and everything about the weeds and occasional critter lining the path. Are they edible – for humans or anything else – or are they poisonous, when do they bloom, brood or whatever, where do they get the water from. Sometimes he gets an answer, "that one's poisonous", "burns like a nettle, only ten times worse", "don't try to smell the reddish shrub, it may look like heather but it'll make you see funny things", even the rare "that beastie tastes rather good". But mostly he gets blank stares. Who the hell is interested in things like that?

Though it is strangely refreshing, to see the Ashen Mountains – and by extension the Dead Marshes at their feet – as a place of wonder and not just the ugly backdrop for the next attack.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

With the freezing sleet and occasional rumble of rockslides from the summit route still firmly lodged in everybody's mind, the overcast damp of the lowlands feels rather comfortable, by comparison. Even the stench of the sickly green scum floating on the bog, we start to march alongside, takes a while to penetrate the general high spirits. The Orcs don't mind, anyway. One of them starts veering off the path but retracts his steps quickly enough when a seemingly solid patch of grass suddenly swallows his leg up to mid-thigh. Grey uses the occasion to treat everyone to a lecture about the assorted dangers of swamps in general and this one in particular that has Rádni plunge into thoughtful silence for a while. If I had to guess, I'd say sword-flags feature quite highly in his mind.

Or not.

"Dagorlad," he pensively repeats the ancient Numerorian name Grey has thrown about casually. Then he lapses back into silence, but another two hundred paces later he starts humming.

Well, he does that. I don't think he realises it, most of the time, but he has a song on his lips more often than not, sometimes rather racy and/or gory marching songs that make me wonder if the air of innocence is just an act or if I should sit him down at a quiet moment, some time, and explain about half the vocabulary to him; but usually the sort of rhythmic chant sailors, harvesters and other folk use to time their work and space their breathing evenly. This one, on the other hand, I haven't heard this one for a long time. It's an old song, and I mean _old_, going back a few score generations. Still a catchy tune, though. Just a bit inopportune for the Land of Shadow.

"…The Iron-Crowned is getting closer, swings his hammer down on him, like a thunderstorm he crashes down on Gondor's proudest king…"(1) Thank gods, the young fool starts singing under his breath with the least offensive lines, but I get hold of his shoulder before he can dig himself any deeper.

"You're good in ancient history, I see," I tell the boy oh so quietly, "but do you happen to recall who's in charge here, now?"

He needs a moment to take my meaning, before he chokes on the next stanza and pales to the most greyish shade of ivory his tan will allow. He swallows heavily.

Too tangled with the sudden lump of lead in his throat to keep an eye on the path, he almost takes a header into the nearest quagmire, then jerks violently when a gaunt hand snakes out to steady him.

"No harm done," Sikhim's gravely voice almost makes _me_ jump, for a walking skeleton the old Haradhrim can move awfully quiet. "Contrary to common belief the Burning One does not listen to every word you speak. Maybe he can hear everything," the bony fingers flex into something that might be a hex sign or a dismissive gesture, "but then, he doesn't bother. Unless you mean disrespect…?"

Rádni croaks a breathless "No, sir!" Sikhim inclines his head, taps the boy's shoulder and drifts back to the end of the column.

Whew, that's another disaster narrowly avoided.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Twilight is about to start falling when Aza – momentarily ahead in the race for the leading position – jumps back with a shrieked curse, jabbing the ground before her with the longest blade in her possession. Something sinuous and glistening writhes under the point, making me run through my mental list of monsters for swamp-things with tentacles – and yes, there are such creatures! Everyone else, including Grey's hound, is thinking along the same lines, judging from the way the make ready for a fight, until one of the Orcs dives forward with what can be described only as a squeal of delight. Narrowly avoiding the Phuma'Ar's blade cutting him in halves at the sudden move, he starts grabbing at the ground, the other Orc merely half a heartbeat behind. When the first squirming thing goes crunch between the half-rotten, pointy teeth, I recognise the Orcish delicacy for what it is and almost start laughing. Shoving my blade, and then Rádni's, back into the sheath, I stomp onto a glassy head just emerging from a crack in the ground, stare down a scowling Orc with the promise of stomping on his fingers just as hard, and show my catch to the human newbies – and the Uruk lurking in the background.

"It's a cavern eel," I explain to the rapt audience, caught halfway between curiosity and disgust, "a subterranean version of the riverine fish."

Others have called it a ghost eel or glass eel, as it's see-through all the way but for the gigantic, palely luminous eyes. Every late summer around full moon – by whatever means they find out when that is, under three miles of solid mountain – they crawl out of the subterranean streams and make their way to the surface and into the swamp, presumably to spawn. I could point out the frothy mass of roe among the pale outlines of the inner organs visible through the colourless skin, if only the blasted fish would hold still for a moment. Four feet of slimy eel coil and whip around my arm, never mind the fact that half transparent vertebrae are visibly smashed and out of alignment from the full weight of yours truly plus a heavy travel pack. The ghostly buggers are even harder to kill than the usual kind. Translucent jaws packed with needle-sharp teeth snap in impotent fury, backed up by a second set further in, which makes me literally double-check that my fingertips are out of reach. Yep, I can see them, safely hooked into the gills, but not too far forward. Orcs absolutely love the taste of cavern eels, raw and wriggly, preferably. Like I expected he would, Thak pecks up at that, no doubt calculating how many of the fishes he can exhort from his smaller cousins. Personally, I think they taste pretty much as they look like, bland while see-through and approaching curdled milk when death turns the transparent blood into chalky white. Still, fresh, edible fish is a rare treat in the mountains, so I use the rock it crawled out under, to cut off the head and filet the fish. When I offer him a piece, Rádni takes it out of politeness, not because he really wants to eat it. The way he chews and chews on it, he's not entirely convinced of the taste. Aza takes hers because she would never back down from a dare, but it's obviously not her favourite dish, either. That's fine with me, leaves more for my impromptu dinner.

Everyone has dinner before reaching camp, today. Grey manages to kill, filet and eat his eel without getting slimed all over, his hound eats his whole. Sikhim wouldn't touch fish – of any colour, shape or form – with a ten-foot pole, if his life depended on it, but he takes a bite from his pouch, for company. The rest of the squad gather enough to gorge themselves properly, but as the eels will turn poisonous even to an Orc's lead-lined stomach as soon as the transparent skin has turned entirely opaque, a few handfuls will have to do.

That's handful in numbers, though, not just as much as one can grab in one go. For the Orcs that means about half their own weight in whole fishes, and while not even Orcs devour the eels in their entirety, it's… well, let's just say that Scarlet – as I have started to call the mole, despite Grey's disapproving glare, for the vivid red blotch covering half of his face, that might be a nasty scar, an even nastier skin condition or even a birthmark, who knows – won't be crawling through any narrow tunnels, for the rest of the day.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

The advantage of having ghost eel spawning season – apart from the free dinner – is that the sudden influx of fresh fish attracts all kinds of hungry local predators, which have no prejudice against feeding on golden-eyed beasts, either. Only strong flyers or real nasties – like fairy dust clouds – make it through. That greatly reduces our workload on that front.

The disadvantage of having ghost eel spawning season is that it attracts all kinds of hungry local predators, most of which aren't discriminate about _any_ source of food. Including mountain guards that step too close. Plus, those intruders that make it through, will be the real nasties – flyers are, by common consent, a problem for the mid- and summit routes, not the lowlands, unless they insist to make themselves a problem for the latter. Nevertheless, seeing that the real nasties are rare and far between – I'm not trying to jinx myself here – and the locals aren't much of a problem if you know them well enough, I rather like this season.

Later in the evening I point out the dancing will-o'-the-wisps to Rádni, their pale phosphorescence shrouded in the rising mists to form writhing ghostly forms.

"I have heard about them. The dead from the Battle of the Last Alliance rise each night to fight the battle again and again," he declares in all earnest. "One must never follow the lights or else you're damned to fight with them in all eternity."

Uh, yes. And no. The creatures, I pointed at, are a sort of glowing jellyfish that can get airborne for a short time and uses this ability and its eerie glow to attract curious prey that is subsequently pulled under water, drowned and eaten. Then there are legions of dead bodies – the fallen of the Last Alliance or the odd wayward wanderer – buried in the Dead Marshes, some of them rather close to the surface – and remarkably well preserved, at times – complete with tons of submerged weapons that can still cut you to pieces if you fall into the wrong pond. I'm not ruling out the presence of vengeful spirits, either, but so far the things that tried to kill me have been, at least, as tangible as the Nine. Not that it matters, really. As long as the boy knows better than to follow the luring lights, he's free to do so for whatever reason he may choose to believe.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Apart from a few suspicious ripples gliding away through the scum at our approach, the next day starts as quietly as anyone could hope for. Far away, beyond the marshes and even there at a point that will take us another day to come abreast, a forest has appeared where there was none last times we passed here, but even for moving trees the swamps make an almost insurmountable obstacle. Wood floats, yes, but only as a log, that is horizontal rather than upright. The trees start walking in – or whatever you may call the movement of an eighty-foot-plus trunk –and get stuck really soon as their weight drives them into the oozing ground beyond recovery. Only once, about three months ago, a couple of them somehow came up with a horizontal, paddling sort of movement that propelled them over the bogs and ponds in a torturously slow but steady pace – patience, I guess, is one of the strong suits of a tree – up to the solid ground at the foot of the Ashen Mountains. What they hadn't figured out, yet, was a way to get upright again at that point.

Khûral spent a very satisfying afternoon – and almost half of our allotment of hellfire – torching the beached trees with a glee that bordered on glutting a well-earned thirst of revenge. Whatever reason he might have had for a personal grudge against _trees_, moving or otherwise, it seems he wasn't the only one. Thakmor glares at the distant wood with a fire in his eyes that ought to make any other form of incendiary obsolete.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Shortly after lunch we reach Ongad's Mere, one of the few substantial bodies of open water in this part of the marshes, and the only one to lap directly against the foothills. It's deep and steep enough to support only a thin line of reeds at its margins and sports no floating vegetation either. A dull, leaden grey, no matter what the weather. Not that a blue sky overhead is a usual sight around here, but when it does appear, the rest of the ponds have the common decency to reflect it. Not so Ongad's Mere. A dull, leaden grey, all the year through, too, it won't freeze, not even in the harshest frost of the winter.

The sullen lake is never a good place to linger, but doubly so during ghost eel spawning season. Grey makes sure everyone is aware of the implications. He nods approvingly when Thak pulls the big axe from his pack and takes point, keeping as far from the shore as possible.

I'm right behind him, sandwiched between the big black and a twitchy Phuma-Ar, not really my favourite place to be, but the path is tricky here, we don't want to end at a sunken, mud-filled and therefore nigh invisible gully. Even if the Uruk doesn't drown himself in such a trap, we really don't want to waste any time beside the mere. So I sing out directions when appropriate and once or twice I even snap at him to pick up the pace, which earns me a growl from the front and curious looks from behind. I don't care, as long as we gain the opposite end of the lake before dusk.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

We are past the mere, picking our way through a scattering of small, moss-covered boulders, the remains of an ancient rockslide that slid down right into the morass, when Scarlet, some ten yards behind me, suddenly gets torn off his feet and dragged towards the bog. Rádni, closest by, tries to reach for the shrieking Orc, manages to get a grip on a flailing arm – and gets dragged along, too. Grey and Sikhim race to help from the rear, the former shouting orders that are drowned in hysteric Black Speech by the time they reach me, and then Thakmor brings down his axe with a sickeningly wet thud.

The shrieking stops.

In typical Uruk-Hai-fashion, the big black has cut it very, very close. Literally. The rest of momentum brought the Orc's boots flush against the broad side of the blade. Half a heartbeat later and our mole would have lost several inches of length. He knows it, gulping heavily at the sight of the sticky axe and the towering figure above him, and Thak knows it, too, grinning down on the sprawled figure with the lazy, sharp-fanged grin of an Uruk out to play.

Grey breaks up the tableau with a few sharp words before the fun can get out of hand. The Orc recovers, angrily brushes off Rádni's hand and starts hacking at the severed tentacle wrapped around his ankles, thick as my thigh and covered with palm-sized suckers, each with a wicked claw in the middle. It's hard work, getting those things loose from heavy-duty boots – and would be messy as hell, had they touched bare skin. Oily, bluish blood trickles from the severed appendage. The stench is hideous. He's almost finished when another score of tentacles whip from the suddenly frothy scum at the water's edge and try to reach the prey that has been so rudely snatched from their embrace.

Thakmor swings his axe in flashing, dripping arcs, Grey yields his sword somewhat more economically but no less effectively, and the old Haradhrim cuts loose with his spear like I've never seen him move before. Rádni grabs Scarlet by the scruff of his neck and hauls him out of reach and I give him a hand. The other Orc – named Jade, for symmetry – ran away from the swamp at the first sign of trouble, choosing the better part of valour, if you are feeling very generous today – which I'm not – but at least he's now in the position to shower the creature with arrows from above and Aza, scowlingly, follows suit. The black-fletched shafts hiss rather closely past the big black's pointy ears, but keep a more prudent distance from the two Men, so I guess the Orc knows how to handle his weapon. Not that a climber is supposed to carry bow and arrows, but Grey did not even raise an eyebrow when Jade picked them up in addition to his usual gear, and Throqu didn't dare to argue the point.

"Don't aim to kill," Grey throws over his shoulder when a roaring mass becomes visible among the thrashed reeds, "just drive it off!"

That's the fun part of it, as a true denizen of the Dead Marshes, the many-armed monster is technically speaking on our side and must not be seriously harmed lest Mordor's natural defences lose part of their forces.

Reaching for Thak's pack, which the big black has shrugged off carelessly at the moment of the first attack, I prepare a couple of fireballs, handing the strings to Rádni to hurl them onto the centre mass of the creature. After the third ball, the skin of hellfire is torn from my sweaty grip by pale, clawed hands – and that's not an item I'm willing to play tug-o-war with – and then Scarlet pours some of the self-igniting oil straight onto the gravel at his feet. He's donned some sort of metal gauntlet, with long, curved claws standing out far beyond his fingertips. He scoops up a blazing stone with these claws and hurls it with deadly accuracy over the heads of our squad mates.

Slashed by blades, spitted with arrows and now pelted with fiery rocks, too, the monster finally decides to pick on easier prey and retreats back into its turbid realm.

**oo oo oo oo oo**

Rádni hits Scarlet on the back, in honest appreciation of the latter's part in driving off the monster, and almost gets a faceful of smoking iron claws for his enthusiasm, as Orcs aren't used to such displays of affection. Jade backs away with a wary look before the boy can even turn towards him, leaving the young man to stumble over his own tongue under Aza's not-quite-sated-shark grin. Sikhim says something to Thak that has the big black straighten up and add his own remark with a flash of grinning fangs. Grey has his hand on his hound's head, scratching the beast behind the ears, absentmindedly, before he gives each of us a curt nod. High praise, indeed.

Having seen the motley crew go through a real fight, now, I share his optimism.

Squad Two is back in business.

* * *

A/N:Sorry for the long delay, folks, but my laptop ate everything I had written for seven months, and RL did its damnedest to keep me busy without lifting a single finger in reconstruction work.

(1) Inspired by a catchy tune called „Time stands still on the Iron Hill", by Blind Guardians, to be found on "Night falls upon Middle Earth".


End file.
